


Like A Lady

by Tsukinokimi



Category: Shugo Chara!
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsukinokimi/pseuds/Tsukinokimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rima is hardly pleased when she's blackmailed into rooming with her rival at Seiyo Ladies' Academy—but soon, not even Seiyo can ignore the shifting tides sweeping the entire country. By then, Fujisaki "Nadeshiko" is the least of her problems... or perhaps the greatest of them. 1930s boarding school AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Returning

CHAPTER 1

 

帰途

Returning

 

 

 

 

The Tokyo Station train platform was full of girls and women as far as my eye could see, clustered in circles and lines like nesting birds. Bundled in coats and capes and _haori_ 1, they were surrounded by kissing mothers, adoring grandmothers, and much-spoiled little brothers hiding in the pleats of their skirts. It was a familiar scene, and it hadn't changed but for the children's heights and the adult's weariness. Peaceful, almost.

My own mother hadn't come to see me off. She didn't have time to, between helping Grandmother with the family business and taking care of her sister's children. How could I begrudge her that? I was a big girl now, considered old at sixteen, and it was a miracle I was being sent off to school at all. I had decided not to question why I wasn't being kept at home to help out. My own family had varying and conflicting ideas about what was to be done with my education, ideas that I would have preferred to stuff into a lacquer box and hurl into the Sea of Japan.

 _So rebellious_ , a voice in my head said, nastily. _When did you get so rebellious?_

I ignored the voice, for I had just heard my favourite sound; someone across the train platform squealed “ _E-eehhh?!_ ” quite loudly, and I knew precisely who. I whirled around, hat almost unseated from my head, and squinted into the crowd.

There she was, the elusive girl; Hinamori Amu, trying to look as cool as ever, had dropped her suitcase. Various handkerchiefs had skidded out onto the ground, and Yuiki Yaya was leaping around, desperately trying to catch them all. Barely concealing a smirk, I picked my way through the people.

“Aaaa! How clumsy you are, Hinamori-san!” I trilled in a monotone, putting on my best high falsetto and speaking directly into her ear. “How unladylike— dropping your suitcase? Do you expect to drop your husband's tobacco when you are married? Will you even catch a man with those clumsy arms of yours, you bourgeois girl?”

Amu jumped and yelped again, spluttering and grabbing for her suitcase handle. I was imitating our headmistress, Fujisaki-sensei, a woman with a sweet, gentle voice and a penchant for stabbing insults. We were fond of calling her The Dragon behind her back, much to everyone's (un)amusement. Yaya, standing behind Amu, burst out into laughter, and ran to hug me.

“Hi, Yaya,” I whispered, returning the hug with one arm, but the shrill whistle of the steam engine drowned out my faint voice. Together, the three of us boarded the train with our luggage, clasping our hats to our heads, chattering all at once.

“Look at them,” Yaya sighed. “They're so shiny.”

The school trains were beautiful, even I had to grudgingly admit. State of the art models from Germany, plated in gleaming mahogany; they still filled me with an embarrassing childish wonder after four years. Their compartments were already packed with the murmur of girl's voices and the clatter of Oxford soles on wood flooring. I tugged on Yaya's sleeve. “Let's find a compartment,” I murmured, insistently, both hers and Amu's arms in a grip.

Amu, being the tallest, led the way through the clusters of girls. Many called out in greeting as she pushed through. Amu was popular; no matter how much she denied it, people were drawn towards her. Despite an aloof exterior covering up a core of shy, adolescent awkwardness, she had a sort of charisma. Far from an ideal beauty, she nevertheless had a nice sort of face. She pulled men and women alike.

I lacked her gift of attracting female companionship, being what a sensei called _a woman with a glacial temperament_ and what Yamabuki Sāya called _a frigid bitch_. I could only be grateful Amu didn't care about my 'glacial temperament'. I had transferred halfway through third form an aloof, introverted merchant's daughter with little regard for anyone. The following year, I exited a confident, almost-functioning human being thanks to Hinamori Amu — or so I'd like to think. Thus, I jealously guarded Amu like a woman guards a string of pearls, fancying her mine in a horrible sort of way.

Pushing that thought away, I tuned back in to the conversation just as we were pushing into a compartment. Yaya was wildly recounting a possibly-made-up story, and, as Amu loaded up our bags on the luggage racks, I saw my friend pause. _That can't be good._

I felt a chill of foreboding as she peered over my shoulder, confirmed when Amu smiled gently. “Oh! There's Nadeshiko-chan! I need to...” She broke off, staring at me. I could feel that my own face had gone from a faint smile to downright stony.

 _Nadeshiko-chan_! Wonderful Nadeshiko-chan. Perfect Nadeshiko-chan. Lovely Nadeshiko-chan, daughter of the Dragon, reigning autocrat of Seiyo Girl's Academy. Amu must have read my expression, because she looked almost hurt. “You know?” Amu wrinkled her nose, making her look like a chipmunk that had choked on an apple core. “When did you start hating Nadeshiko-chan? She's so nice!”

I tried to keep my face impassive, stuffing my hands in my coat pockets. “Nice? Yes, of course.” Nadeshiko was nice, and tigers were friendly, highly sociable creatures that would soon be running for office. “That's fine, Amu. Go on and give your petty salutations."

She stayed where she was, biting her lip; I could tell she didn't appreciate my sass, but I was far too stubborn to rescind it. Yaya laughed, oblivious to the tension. “Rima, you're just jealous, because Nade-chan staked her claim on Amu-chi firs- _OW_!”

Yaya cried out, hopping back like an offended sparrow; I had stomped on her foot, hard. Yaya had a horrible habit of stating hard truths and then laughing them off. At times, I liked it, but not now. Jealousy was unseemly, and I didn't want to hear that I was jealous of someone I had no chance of measuring up to. It wasn't that Nadeshiko's family was petty nobility, nor that she was a blooming carnation of Japanese wifely ideals; it was simply that– that –

Amu pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “You're jealous, Rima?”

Of her social ability. Of the way she always got what she wanted, of her knack for gathering girls around her in female understanding. Revolting. I was by no standards a tomboy, but next to her, I felt like one; short for my age, knees grubby, I had a vulgar sense of humour unbefitting my station and a fondness for wisecracking that made my teachers despair for my future. Nadeshiko's idea of comedy was stupidly clever little bits of hiragana wordplay. She was stupid. Stupidhead. I loathed her female ability, right down to the perfect ruler-straight part on the top of her head and tousled aubergine-black fringe.

“I don't see much to be jealous of,” I lied. Tossing one of my unruly braids over my shoulder, I edged into the train compartment, pretending that Amu's gawky noodle frog face did not exist. My eyes were occupied, watching so closely for the telltale sakura hairpins and silky ponytail of the Dragon's Daughter that I backed right into the window, smacking my head. Rubbing it ruefully, I heard a peal of laughter: my blood froze.

“Rima-sama is as poised as ever,” Nadeshiko's light, gentle voice carried easily through the compartment over Amu's shoulder. Like a monster, she came into view; her ponytail was as irritatingly bouncy as ever, legs long and face bright. Like a dumb moon. I wanted to pull that silky ponytail out with every fibre of my being.

“Nadeshiko!" Amu turned around, eyes shining; Nadeshiko's eyes visibly softened in her presence. Her soft spot was Amu; I felt an odd, dull ache in my chest at the thought of it. Watching them together was like voluntarily stabbing myself with thumbscrews. With extreme difficulty, I pulled my eyes away, just as Fujisaki turned her attention to me, with a tinkling laugh.

“Is your head quite alright, Rima-chan? That was quite a smacking noise! Almost like a gourd against glass– what a strong skull you have. It is truly admirable.”

I didn't quite know what to say to this, but I knew exactly what she was implying; an unspoken _melon-head_ and _thick-skulled_ rang in the air. As always, I knew little of what to say in the presence of Nadeshiko, who waited for my clumsy moments like a vulture waits for a carcass to ravage. Amu's laugh was the only thing that spurred me to speak, a sulky little voice.

“What a blessing, then, that we aren't all eggheads like you, Fujisaki-san.”

I heard someone make the tiniest of exhale-laughs through their nose across from me, but I was oblivious. Nadeshiko's smile only widened, and she pulled on Amu's arm. Angry with myself, I pointedly engaged myself in conversation with Yaya. I heard Amu's delighted voice, and fading footsteps. She had left with Nadeshiko. Best friends are best friends, after all.

A sneak attack. That's always how she got me, watching my vigilant eye until I got distracted and then diving in for the kill like a hyena. Sun Tzu would glow with pride at the likes of Nadeshiko; her insults were crafted with such care and subtlety that only I could understand their true intent! It was to the point where I wondered if I was losing my mind.

Yes; surely I was reading too much into it. Could the _Rima-sama is as poised as ever_ be nothing more than a light tease? I wasn't familiar with the way most girls made jokes... perhaps I was simply thinking the worst of her? Or perhaps that's what she wanted me to think. Exhausted, I sunk further into the train seat. I felt Yaya's hand pat my back softly, and then, a slow drawl across from me:

“You should shape up, with an attitude like that. Girls like her will eat you alive.”

I looked up, just as the train began to move with a sickening lurch. Sprawled across from me, one slim leg crossed over the other, was the girl that had spoke. I knew who she was, of course. Hoshina Utau, a year older than I, was nonetheless well-known for her background. Her mother hailed from a family of well-known Tokyo financiers; Hoshina Souko had recently remarried to the head of a large electric company. This was evidently a sore topic for Hoshina, for when asked about it the prior semester, she had verbally lashed several girls to tears. (It was very impressive.)

Hoshina and Amu seemed to be friends that mutually respected each other, of course, but _me_? I met her eyes interestedly, and decided against any slights on her mother's integrity. “Hello, Hoshina-san,” I said, flatly, as clouds of smoke drifted outside from the engine. Yaya added a frantic, shy little finger wiggle and an eager, 'hello!'

“No need to _hello_ me,” she replied, point blank, and nodded at the door outside. Truly not giving any damns. “I don't know Fujisaki-san very well, but I've seen enough. You're threatening her. Either stop poking the dragon between the eyes, or shape up and grow a spine.”

It was hard not to be offended with the harsh way she spoke; I couldn't help but lean back a bit, with a distasteful look. “Who said I was _poking her between the eyes_?”

“Well,” she looked up, looking mildly surprised. “I suppose I did. Although it's probably your _mere existence_ that is poking her between the eyes, if you know what I mean...”

“Ah, I understand,” I said, sarcastically. "I'll simply stop existing.”

“Rima-tan...” began Yaya, in her Rima-please-be-nice-to-my-idols voice, and I fell silent. Utau shook her head, staring thoughtfully out the window. “I'm just illuminating it for you,” she said huffily, ponytails moving with every bump and jostle of the train. “She's trying to get a rise out of you, and I recommend you don't give her one.”

She stared even harder out the window, indicating the conversation was over. The train car fell silent.

Amu returned some time later, pleasantly Nadeshikoless. With an inquiring look at Hoshina, and an even more inquiring look at me, she took a cautious seat. I gave her nothing but a cold nod, but it was difficult to stay angry at her; I gave into Yaya's pleading stares quite quickly.

After that, I nearly enjoyed myself. We whiled away the train ride by eating our packed lunches and playing shiritori2 _ad nauseum_. It was a Nadeshiko sort of game, the exact clever wordplay nonsense I wished to be rid of. By the time Yaya had repetitively lost with _-n_ words and I had resorted to making up fake English, the train was well out of Tokyo prefecture and I was heartily out of the game. Copying Hoshina, I took to staring out the window. The scenery of Hyōgo whizzed by quicker than I could glimpse, nothing more than dazzling gold snatches of wheat and the unending cold azure of the sky.

* * *

When we got off the train, it was a frenzy of luggage and shrieks; Manami had misplaced something, Yamamoto was shouting, and Amu was short a handkerchief. Our teachers looked like they were about to cry amid the rather poetic black-and-white sea of upset Japanese schoolgirls currently flooding them at all sides; they looked like drowning men. I could not find any room in my heart to feel pity for any of them, especially Sanjou-sensei, who had notoriously whacked me with a bamboo pole and written home last year after I set off various firecrackers behind the outhouses. Good. Let her suffer.

Seiyo was outright rural; the roads were not paved like they were in Tokyo. Rather, the path was dirt, and it was not long until our socks and shoes were dusty from the clouds being kicked up. Many of us were sticky and tired, and had come much farther than the Tokyo station; Yamamoto had come from as far as Nagoya. When we reached the cluster of buildings that housed our precious classrooms, I couldn't help but think it was all a great deal of walking for nothing. Seiyo was indistinguishable from the houses in the town except in size and vague Western influence; it was not an imposing structure in the least, sitting low to the ground. The dormitory building behind it greatly contrasted the school in style; it was the spitting image of a Western house from the newspapers, a whitewashed box with tiny windows and a sorry excuse for a veranda.

There was little need for school administration, as there weren't many of us; perhaps ninety girls at most, split into three classes, more or less. The teachers acted more like resigned sheepdogs than commanders, jostling us into the dormitory building, this way and that.

Our numbers seemed bigger this year. By the time we were hustled into the dormitory buildings to deposit our bags, I was quite sure that the first-year class was equal to our co-existing students– a curious thing.

I gripped Yaya's sleeve, indicating that we should go find our room. Yaya had been my roommate since I was eleven, and that was the way it had always been; I was about to dive for a likely-looking door when I felt a taloned hand on my shoulder.

“Ma- _shi_ -ro!”

My surname was delivered with such an apoplectic shriek that it would have been hard _not_ to turn around; as it was, I clearly looked a bit shell-shocked, as I heard a smattering of laughter.

“You've _been_ ,” my emotionally volatile etiquette teacher almost spat, steering me by the shoulder away from the door like a keel in a storm, “ _Reassigned rooms_ due to _overcrowding_. You _are now_ in the _first room_ in the _east hall_. Kindly reloc _ATE_ yourself, _please_!”

“The east hall?!” I couldn't help but exclaim, feeling deeply and personally affronted. "“ut the sun will be in my eyes in the morning.”

My etiquette teacher inhaled so sharply that I was surprised she didn't snort a few children up her nostrils. What a blatant display of rudeness.

“I'm _SORRY_ , Mashiro, for a moment I _forgot_ that the world _revolved around you_.”

I stared into her slightly-bulging eyes, about to say ' _That's quite alright! It happens_ ,' but I prudently decided against it. Instead, I scuttled away like a frightened beetle. I knew better than to cross Kichigai-sensei at the start of the year. My instinct was proven right, yet again, as I heard her voice in the distance. “ _Hinamori_! Can you tell me _precisely_ when I said it was ever _becoming_ on a woman to stare off into space like a _vacant slack-jawed boor_?”

As I turned the corner swiftly, ever off-task, I wondered if the teachers weren't all a little too hard on Amu. Many of us were high-born, or at least possessing foreign diplomat fathers; Amu was surprisingly ordinary. She was downright homogeneous working-class Japanese. No wonder she was so nervous all the time; she must wonder why she was educated in a place which she clearly did not belong.

I wondered, too, but I daren't ask. After all, I was well-off myself but not entirely without my dirty reasons; perhaps it was the same for her. Having firmly made up my mind about this, I turned the corner once more, slowing to a tentative walk.

First room in the east hall... I must have stepped foot here at least once or twice, but my mind had little recollection of it. The wooden walls felt all too alien to me, despite being within the same building. The west hall had been ablaze with light, bright gold and vivid rose; in contrast, the cold east wing was muted blues and cool shadows, facing away from the sun. A lady from the court novels would have whispered something breathless and clever, like “ _so this is how Chang'e 3 feels, alone on the moon! How pitifully lonely!”_ but I'm sorry to say that my only thought was several unprintable words and a sudden chill. It was cold. Fucking cold.

Wasting no time with my unwieldy travel bag, I fumbled with the confusing doorknob. I loathed these doorknobs, and wondered why they existed. They were an oddity, even for the age. In more traditional girl's schools, the dormitory building was a simple room lined with tatami mats. This bolstered sisterhood between girls; futons would be laid out in a grid, girls confined to the huge room to sleep, relying on each other's exuded body heat. Not unlike a flock of penguins. Rather than this, Seiyo had surprised me with a Western-style dormitory building, separated two-by-two: cold, small cell-like rooms with small, cell-like boxy doors. With fiddly-diddly brass adornments, such as... _twisty doorknobs_. I had always wondered why they insisted us on such foreign customs. More than once, the idea had crossed my mind that they did not want sisterhood at all; they wanted segregation. But that was paranoia and nonsense. What did they have to gain?

My roommate seemed to be absent. I threw my bag onto one of the low-built beds in an unladylike fashion, and swished to the window to peer outside. Not entirely night-time yet; the sloping hills and tiny trees stood out sharply against the deep and rapidly-darkening blue. It made me think of dinner, and I was about to go find Amu and Yaya, when—

“Mashiro,” a voice rang, with sudden _déjà-vu_. I turned around, expecting my psychotic etiquette teacher to have returned with more things to screech about– only to find myself staring into the narrowed sepia-brown eyes of Fujisaki Nadeshiko herself instead. Arms crossed, feet boyishly apart, she did not look pleased. Numb shock gave away to indignation. What was she doing in here— and looking so snappy, at that?

I tried to take a step back, forgetting that I was against a wall, and promptly smacked the back of my head on the window, again. Struggling to remain stoic in the face of a bitch-in-uniform, I tenderly touched the back of my head and tried to pretend it was a cute bump rather than an unholy glass-whack.

Uncharacteristically, she disregarded this lapse in my feminine graces, choosing to almost glare at me instead. How strangely she was acting. She had on her Concerned Upperclassmen Voice. “What are you doing in here? This room is off-limits to other students. You should be staying in the west hall, if my suspicions are correct. Kindly–”

She was so unseated that it was almost enjoyable. “I was ' _relocated_ ',” I replied. “This is my dormitory. If you've got a problem, you may take it up with Kichigai-sensei.”

“If you _have_ a problem.” She tossed her ponytail.

I stared at her, completely dumbfounded. It took a moment for me to realize that rather than reply to me properly, she had just _corrected my grammar_. About to give her a rather polite suggestion as to where she could stick her grammar corrections instead, I never had the chance; she turned on her boot heel and swished out of the room, like an exciting butterfly moving on to better things. Good. I was alone.

Even so, Nadeshiko's behaviour troubled me. I had never expected her to be so strangely terse and to-the-point in private; more worrying was the implication that she only made a spectacle of my embarrassment when other people were watching. Why was that? It was downright insulting in and of itself that she regarded me as a punching bag in front of Amu, but gave me human rights in private. What a bitch! Wait! _This was her plan_! She wanted me to think this! Fine– she wanted politeness? I could be polite. I would be utterly kind to her. So there.

I fumed with my inconsolable kindness on the bed. When the door opened again, not too long after, there stood Nadeshiko. She looked a great deal more calm and back to her normal self. She smiled at me, very unkindly. “You're still here, Rima-chan?”

Don't call me that. _Bitch_.

I nodded.

“Very well. It seems that you were telling the truth.” Why would I lie to you? _Bitch_. “Sensei has, indeed, confirmed that you have changed rooms, due to overcrowding this year. They're clearing out the west hall for the first-years. So, I suppose–”

She tried to smile, but her crocodilian heart proved this feat extremely difficult. Or maybe I was simply reading into an innocent smile, but that was impossible– Nadeshiko wasn't innocent.

“– I suppose that makes us roommates.”

What.

What was she, stupid? She couldn't be my roommate. I'd die. Also, she would eat my skin clean off in the middle of the night. I could not divulge these affirmations to her face, so instead I replied, quite wittily, “No, it doesn't.”

How devastatingly beautiful that smile was. Like she was already imagining what my skin would taste like. _My skin, when she ate it clean off that night_!

“Now, now, there's no need to look so utterly horrified, Rima-chan,” she patted my shoulder in a maternal sort of way. Evidently, the horror I was feeling was showing on my face. “I feel just the same as you. This will be a temporary arrangement, until I can arrange otherwise. Three days, at most.”

Of course. I had forgotten that Nadeshiko was the daughter of the headmistress, that she wielded real power. I was a fool. Of course she'd fix this in a jiffy, and I had been an idiot to think anything else.

In that moment, something strange happened; outside adversity united the two of us for the first time in our lives. It was over something as petty as being sorted into the same room, but it made me feel like we were on the same side. How strange, to feel united with Nadeshiko!

It was enough to make me rethink my eagerness to get out of this roommate arrangement. When I started thinking about it, how would Nadeshiko fix this– really? She'd likely switch me back into Yaya's room, of course. But she had also confirmed that the dormitories were overcrowded this year. With the dormitory building in such a crowded state, Nadeshiko could not get away with being a single boarder; she would likely have to take a new roommate. Should she be given the choice to choose, she'd certainly pick Amu.

No.

“No?” Nadeshiko's perfectly arched eyebrows furrowed. “ _No?_ ”

I put a hand delicately over my mouth, with the horrible realization that I had spoken out loud. How would I convince Nadeshiko to keep rooming with me? It was certainly not a palatable thought, but it was a thousand times more palatable than the idea of her and Amu cozying it up together and then proceeding to elope into the sunset to have several children. I decided that it would be best to play to Nadeshiko's insufferable competitiveness rather than anything else.

“Well, I mean, you can do whatever you wish,” I said very slowly, turning away from her and opening the wardrobe door in a rather dreamlike state. “It's just a little ironic that you're afraid of me. I wouldn't have expected such cowardice out of you. _Nadeshiko-chan_.”

There was a very pleasing silence, during which I coolly began hanging up my clothes in what I imagined to be a very calm and collected manner. I could see Nadeshiko's face reflected in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door, but it was illegible; if anything, she looked downright thoughtful.

“I never claimed to be brave,” she replied, in the same thoughtful voice. I had a growing suspicion this was a challenge to one of her wordy banter games, so I mentally checked out halfway through her sentence and continued to navel-gaze instead.

Was I truly doing the right thing? Would my all-encompassing affection for Amu outshine the distaste I had for Nadeshiko? So far, her rationality impressed me; for all the cruelty in public, she was very rational to my face. I remembered Nadeshiko's warm eyes on the train, and Amu's happy voice. The mere thought of it drove me to my decision. Yes, this was the right thing. I was doing a Good Thing. I turned around, secure in my do-gooder convictions, only to find Nadeshiko frowning at me.

“... Are you listening, Rima-chan?”

“No,” I replied, shutting the wardrobe door.

“I said, _very well_ ,” she smoothed down the front of her skirt, giving me a rather resigned look. "If you have your heart set on it so terribly, I don't see why not.”

I was surprised that my simple tactic had succeeded so easily. Was Nadeshiko that easy to manipulate, or was I playing into her hands? Wait. This is what she wanted me to think. NO.

“However, I have a few restrictions.” She tossed her head, smiling; oh, no. _Oh no, no, no, no_. Nothing good could make Nadeshiko smile like that. I had made a losing gamble.

“As you know, I'm a rather prestigious student; I keep a rather strict schedule, and I'd rather you didn't muss it up, Rima-chan. Lights are out at nine-thirty, I need twenty minutes in the bathroom in the morning, and as for when I'm studying... well, absolute silence, really.”

No, no, no. Bollocks. _Absolute silence_? Besides, who takes twenty minutes in the bathroom in the morning? I didn't even want to think about why that would even be necessary! Did her body clock run like a German train?!

For Amu. I must do this to save Amu from being forced to room with Nadeshiko, and being stolen forever by the best-friend-thieving dog. I set my jaw, meeting Nadeshiko's eyes.

“That's fine, Nadeshiko-san.”

She seemed close to asking if I was sure, but she didn't say anything. I had reason to think she was trying to deter me from rooming with her on purpose, despite her outward agreement. Why would that be? She was an odd girl. Perhaps I could get some dirt on her. With this grudgingly optimistic thought in mind, I murmured something about dinner, and left the room.

* * *

I told the story much differently to Amu and Yaya. Being laconic by nature, with little time for anything beyond an anecdote, I glossed over many of the finer points.

In fact, there were no finer points to speak of. I told the entire story like this:

“Ol' Psycho stuck me in a room with Fujisaki-san. Her face when she found out was hilarious.”

By the end of the first sentence, both their mouths were open incredulously, like they were auditioning for the National Frog Choir. I attempted to replicate the face Nadeshiko first made when she walked into the room, but there was no laughter from either of them.

Frustrated, I switched to imitating their open-mouthed Frog Choir faces instead. Still nothing.

“What is it?" I demanded, flopping back into my seat. We were sitting at the end of the long bench where school meals were served, the table only half-full with students. Presumably, the other half of them were still unpacking. I was picking at the pickled plum in my rice bowl distractedly, and Yaya had been eyeing it hungrily, like a dog. I picked the plum up with my chopsticks and waved it in front of her face, before swallowing it in one swift motion.

This seemed to jerk Yaya out of her reverie. With a _look_ at Amu, she said in a very gossipy voice, “Well, everyone knows that Nade-chan's never had to take roommates. She always gets a room to herself.”

“What?” I questioned back, in a hushed voice. " _Why?_ ”

“I've heard it's because she's got a conjoined twin attached to her side, all shrunken-up, you know, so nobody is allowed to see her change–”

Yaya's yarn spurred Amu out of inertia; she seemed to decide that if anyone was to be gossiping about her precious Nade-Nade, it should be her. “Th-that can't be it, Yaya!” Defensively. “She's the headmistress's daughter, isn't she? That means she probably gets a nicer single room, that's all.”

I made an X with my arms. "Nix on that. The room's the same as the all the other ones.”

Well... except for the attached full washroom. Amu and Yaya must have seen the hesitation on my face, so I added, slowly. “Well, except we have our own bathroom.”

“A washroom with a bath? That's so lucky, Rima-tan! No wonder you wanted to keep it!” Yaya looked so impressed by my cunning that I latched onto the ready-made excuse. Nobody need know that I was actually rooming with Nadeshiko to protect Amu, obviously.

“Well, of course," Smugly, I nodded. “I'd put up with two Nadeshikos to have my own bathroom.”

“That'll be so nice,” said Yaya, enviously, and Amu nodded in hesitant agreement. I felt like she wasn't entirely won over, so, in a hurry to change the subject, I turned back to Yaya.

“You think that's why she's got her own bathroom? So that nobody has to see her shrunken twin when she bathes?”

“Stop _talking_ about that!" Amu yelped.

* * *

I forgot about Nadeshiko's imposed nine-thirty curfew, until I caught sight of Yamamoto's watch. The minute hand was ticking dangerously close to true south. _Shit._

I had stayed with Yaya and Amu until it was dark, chatting with the droves of girls who had come to say hello; they had spoken with bright faces about the places they had gone over the spring break. One had a father stationed in Northern China; another had travelled as far as France, a country so distant that it might as well have been on the moon. I had never stepped foot outside Japan– my family, tied as they were to the cotton industry, could not very well up and go on vacation– but it was the first time I had ever thought of my country as _small_. It was a little island, really.

It was in this way that I had lost track of time, leaving the school building in quite a hurry. The cold, dark embrace of the East Hall was as unpleasant as ever. Despite being bundled up in my winter uniform, the chill had a way of seeping through the cloth. I was grateful to get safely into my new bedroom, shutting the door behind me with some careful fumbling.

It was pitch black, with a single cool blue window wavering in my line of vision. I was worried this meant that Nadeshiko was already in bed, waiting for me with her evil Lizard Eyes, but then I spotted the faint golden line on the floor.

Just in the bathroom, then. Good. I could get into my nightgown, crawl under the covers, and pretend I had been there the entire time, like a Good Roommate. Turning up one of the oil lamps, I casually began pulling my uniform shirt over my head.

As I undressed, I kept one eye focused on the bright light under the door. We may have both been women with nothing to hide, but I was certainly not ready to give her more ammunition for insults; knowing Nadeshiko, she would have found a way to make me feel bad about my naked body, something about pudgy stomachs or weird-coloured pigmentation. I wouldn't put it past her.

My worries were in vain. I changed without incident and in the dead silence of semi-darkness. In fact, there was almost _too_ much silence; there was not a sound from the other side of that door. No footsteps, no changing shadows. What, precisely, was she _doing_ in there?

Inexplicably, Yaya's voice rose to the front of my mind: '... _because she's got a conjoined twin attached to her side–'_

I stifled a snort. That was most certainly not it. I was not the type to worry or be paranoid, but maybe there had been an accident. Had she had fainted in there?

It was not unheard of for people to get overheated by hot water, faint, and then drown to death. I didn't like Nadeshiko, but I didn't loathe her so much as to want her dead. With a weary sigh, I walked over to the door, tentatively knocking on it. “Nadeshiko-san?” I called through the door, in barely above a whisper; and then, louder. “Fujisaki!”

Silence. But I could hear the faintest sound; like the beating of wings. Breathing.

She was still breathing, but not responding. Clearly, this meant that she was passed out on the floor.

My time had come. Finally, I would be able to defeat this stupid doorknob. Patience thoroughly worn thin, I twisted it roughly. As the doorknob turned, I felt resistance, as if someone was gripping it from the other side– but that was impossible! Why...

I pushed against the door with my shoulder, feeling myself terribly brawny, and stuck my foot in the doorframe. Forcing my body through with a fleeting feeling of triumph, I immediately knew I had made a terrible mistake.

Nadeshiko was not lying unconscious on the floor. She was, however, flattened against the wall behind the door in terror, uniform skirt clutched to her chest, hair down and spilling over her shoulder. Even dishevelled, she looked devastatingly beautiful; I wondered why the thought inexplicably crossed my mind, except for that perhaps I found some kind of beauty in vulnerability.

Vulnerable she certainly was; she appeared halfway through getting dressed. Even as I pulled my eyes away by reflex, I couldn't help but see that she was built more athletically than me, with shoulders that stuck out and a defined breastbone. It was not becoming on any lady to ogle up another, and certainly not in this situation; yet, maddeningly, I couldn't help but stare at the outline of her chest with a strange sort of fascination I hadn't felt before, down to her stomach and below her navel where black hairs trailed down to below- their- the t-

My curiosity well and sated, I shrieked no louder than a field mouse, stumbling back for the third time that day and banging my head on the mirror behind me. Much too late, I clapped a hand over my eyes, out of some belated respect for my own female dignity. No matter how hard I covered my eyes, I had a horrible feeling that I had already seen enough.

When I wanted dirt on Nadeshiko, I had imagined something harmless– funny, even– something like having a deep-seated crush on Harold Lloyd, something stupid like that. Not this. _Never this._

Fujisaki Nadeshiko, ladylike darling of the school, was undeniably a boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. _Haori_ ( 羽織): A hip- or thigh-length kimono jacket, worn over kimono.
>   2. _Shiritori_ ( しりとり): A Japanese word game in which the players are required to say a word which begins with the final kana of the previous word.
>   3. 3 _Chang'e_ ( 嫦娥): A goddess from Chinese mythology, who swallowed an entire immortality pill and floated away to the moon to spend the rest of her days.
> 



	2. The Boy of the East Wing

CHAPTER 2

 

東館の男

Boy of the East Wing

 

 

 

 

_She was a boy._

The realization shocked me, but not as much as I would have expected. In a bizarre way, it almost made sense, as if a puzzle piece was fitting into place. The mask-like smile, the strong legs, _she always gets a room to herself_... The obviousness of it, the hints I had not gotten, irritated me deeply for some reason.

Of course, his face was guilty, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't– it was odd, to see such a vulnerable expression on the face of someone usually so composed. Nadeshiko would not have shown such weak emotions to me; I don't think she would have shown them to anybody at all.

This was not the face of Nadeshiko, then, only the face of a terrified boy. It forced me to conclude that the Fujisaki Nadeshiko we all knew did not exist, no more real than a Noh 1 mask.

A mask worn for what sake? Why bother?

I peeked through my fingers, only to catch him staring back at me. I promptly disappeared behind my fingers again. Don't look. _Don't look!_

"Rima."

My name rolled off his tongue like the rumble of wind before a storm, and an electric tremor ran up my spine. Her voice had always been a naturally low, but passably effeminate and breathy; it was now apparent that her "naturally low" voice had been in a higher register all along. I clapped my other hand over my face with a wail.

" _Mashiro-san_ ," Nadeshiko's voice sounded a little exasperated now. As he spoke, I slid down the wall into a crouching position, face still buried in my hands. He raised his voice over the sound of my back screeching down the wall. "While I would be lying if I said your eyes on my midsection weren't flattering, you appear quite strained. Perhaps you should leave the room for your own sake."

I kept my hands over my face, and did not budge an inch.

I heard Nadeshiko sigh. "Very well, then."

I heard the rustle of a skirt being folded; I opened my eye a crack, watching through my eyelashes. I had the sneaking suspicion that he knew I was peeking— his shoulders rolled back proudly as he pulled on a jinbei, upper arms noticeably strong, midriff toned. It must have been a lonely existence, having no girls to show off your abs to. What a twat.

Then again, I was the one looking. I had no brothers, nor men in the house save for a two-year-old nephew; the male body was a mystery to me. Perhaps I had no right to criticize him for showing off if I was the one so fascinated by such a lewd thing. But it was scientific interest. Who could blame me?

"Alright," he said, in a soft voice, and I heard him straighten up. "I'm done."

The idea that Nadeshiko could speak to me in such a soft, cautious voice was almost laughable. Then again, the power balance between the two of us was beginning to tip; did Nadeshiko truly have the upper hand, now? I was slowly getting over the shock of Nadeshiko being male, realizing the implications, the things I could do. I did not want to enjoy the idea of manipulating Nadeshiko; but after the hell she had put me through, I was tempted.

A single word, and the school would know: he would be expelled, entire family shamed, Fujisaki Nadeshiko out of my hair. And all this was only the tip of the iceberg, just the beginning; in the hands of someone truly cruel, one could extort and blackmail at their leisure. Most temptingly, I could twist the truth to Amu; make him morally reprehensible in her eyes because of this deceit. His entire family shamed. A strange chill settled over me – I did not want that, could not want that.

I lifted my head from my hands; my own face felt quite strange, unlike my own. Clearly, it must have looked that way, too, because the boy Nadeshiko took a cautious step back.

I stared at him.

He took another step back. My heart had already won out over malice, as it often did. I was not capable of tarnishing an entire family's reputation over a bitter schoolgirl's grudge. He didn't have to know that, though.

"You're a boy," I said. My voice could be toneless at the worst of times.

"I am," he replied quietly. I couldn't have expected anything more. He made no offer of an explanation or apology; he simply stood there, leaning against the foot of his own bed, staring with bright eyes.

I had thought Nadeshiko conventionally beautiful, but transferring her features to a male face was difficult. In a unisex garment, hair down, I couldn't tell if he was handsome, beautiful, both or neither. Yet, he seemed to walk a blurred line between the genders, one I had not seen anyone breach. _He was a boy_. What would I do with this information?

Perhaps this was simply another Nadeshiko game; whatever I did would communicate something about my character. I was damned if I did, damned if I didn't. So be it; I would withdraw.

"I'm going to sleep," I murmured, turning around.

That did the trick. I heard the bed creak. "Mashiro-san, wait–"

It gave me a thrill to hear Nadeshiko making pleas to my retreating back. I turned over my shoulder, eyes bleary. "It's ten o'clock already– a half hour past your curfew. And I'm tired."

It wasn't a lie; this new knowledge exhausted me. Too much unpleasant information already, and lessons hadn't even started... my stomach churned at the anticipation of the needlework and rhetoric that would follow tomorrow.

Without waiting for a response, I took the glass cylinder off the oil lamp, blowing it out softly. The room went black.

* * *

Sleep did not come easily, mind too busy whirling with the thoughts of cross-dressers and cross-stitch. I lost count of the times I turned over and drifted off into a shallow, unpleasant doze only for a half-baked nightmare to jerk me awake; my legs were too hot, then too cold, and the entire time, Nadeshiko's face, dancing through my brain.

I was sleeping a few feet away from a boy. _Why?!_ My mother would have a brain aneurysm if she knew! After spending fourteen odd-years keeping me away from men of ill repute, _this_ had to happen... It wasn't as if I was _afraid_ of men, but I was wary. They weren't like women; they were dangerous, obsessed with body parts. Men leered at me on the streets. I rolled over, staring at the dark shape across the room. Was Nadeshiko like that, too?

By the time I finally fell into an uneasy sleep, it seemed only five minutes later that a hot, red-white brightness pressed down on my eyelids, pulling me from slumber. Try as I might to ignore it, it was stubborn; I could not, for the life of me, fall back asleep.

I groaned. My own bathroom was _not_ worth the sun in my eyes.

Eyes still shut, I folded the covers back, stumbling over to my uniform, folded neatly at the foot of my bed. After banging my shins on my bedframe, I opened my eyes. Nadeshiko was gone; bed impeccably folded, hospital-cornered, one could bounce a quarter off it. _Show-off_.

This, however, suited me just fine; I could change in peace, nobody any the wiser. Considering the events of last night, I was in as good a mood as I could have hoped for; Nadeshiko had made themselves scarce, I had gotten _some_ sleep, and at least I could immerse myself in a day of distraction.

My good-ish mood evaporated as I opened the door to a deserted hallway. It was not a good omen; morning usually meant a frantic flurry of girls, the tossing of hairbrushes and ribbons across rooms, socked feet thudding on wood. Instead, the outer hall was utterly quiet; I could have heard of a pin drop.

And that meant I was late. _Hell_! I broke into a run. What was first thing, today? Music with Sanjo-sensei. Fuck. Remembering that runs were _neither attractive nor ladylike_ , I slowed to a half-run, a sort of jogging hobble. It only succeeded in making me look like a donkey with a broken leg.

Not to be deterred in my ladylike running quest, I donkey limped across the lawn and up the stairs to the schoolhouse. I was very impressed with my grace and coordination right up until I opened the door and Sanjo-sensei snapped, "Mashiro, what the hell are you _doing_?"

There was a flurry of frantic giggling. I slid the classroom door shut behind me, hastily slowing to a walk towards my desk. Late for class on the first day, and no breakfast– my day promptly soared from Reasonably Well, All Things Considered to Utterly Pants like a graceful crane crash-landing into a swamp.

I never had a chance to reach my desk. The door open again no sooner than I had shut it, and Sanjo-sensei put down her notes slowly, an extremely irritated look on her face. "One girl is already tardy," her voice rang out, thick with sarcasm. "Pray tell, what natural disaster occurred to keep so many of you from class?"

"Please, sensei. The headmistress wishes to speak with Mashiro-san."

The irritated look wilted slightly in the face of Nadeshiko, adored even by teachers. I felt my heart sink further in my chest cavity, settling somewhere around the bottom of my ribcage where it growled softly. It was a minute before I realized it was hunger, not sadness. Breakfast had been over before I woke up.

"I'm sorry, Nadeshiko-chan, but I cannot neglect my education," I replied, sweetly. Bleeding hell! I _knew_ I shouldn't have just gone to bed last night without so much of an indication of what I would do the following morning. Clearly, Nadeshiko thought I was going to squeal and had come here to pull me out of class before I could tell everyone what a complete and utter man he was! "Singing is very important to me, and I must work harder at it, therefore, I cannot leave class..."

This clearly didn't fly over well with Sanjo-sensei, who glared at me, glasses flashing. "I expect you back in ten minutes, Mashiro."

"... Really need to focus hard on my vocal cords this term..."

" _Mashiro_."

"... Yes, sensei," I said meekly, and ducked under Nadeshiko's arm with a sulky air. Perhaps he _let_ me oversleep, knowing that it would be easier to kidnap me if I was sleep deprived and late for class. Dammit, how could I have been so stupid? I let my guard down!

But when Nadeshiko had slid the door shut behind me, the two of us locked in the quiet sunny hallway, he didn't exactly look very well himself. He had faint bruises under his eyes, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't heard any deep and even breaths from the other bed.

"You're not in trouble," Nadeshiko said warily, as way of explanation, and I bristled a little bit. "Why would I be?"

He did not reply; I suppose he didn't have to. I followed him resentfully, mind whirling. The headmistress... Fujisaki-sensei, the Dragon. I hadn't met her, although she gave a speech at the start of each term that was often quite dull and involved quite a bit of flowery language rubbish that I never listened to. She was also notoriously terrifying, despite having a gentle face. What did she want with me? _Was I going to be expelled?_ I may not have been thrilled with my position at Seiyo Girl's Academy, but my friends were here, and it was a thousand times more preferable than returning home to omiai  2 and cotton machines.

Perhaps I could run while Nadeshiko's back was turned. My half-hearted escape plan was immediately thwarted, however, because at that moment he turned his head over his shoulder and tried to smile.

I stared back. We were in a seemingly older, slightly built-up part of the school that I had never seen before, despite attending classes here for so long. This must be Fujisaki-sensei's office, but what did she need an office for? Spying on girls learning how to sew?

Nadeshiko slid open the screen door and stood to the side, waiting. Did he think he was a gentleman, now? What a twat. I walked through, giving him the suspicious side-eye. _Why are you doing this?_

"Wait here."

His ponytail swished out of view behind another screen. I was left alone in the reception room with Fujisaki-sensei's secretary. Even though it was small and plain, it was arguably more luxurious than our classrooms: there was a flower arrangement on a side table in front of a calligraphy scroll, and the secretary's black lacquer desk had certainly not come cheap. The only indication of modern influences was the soft _clack-clack-clack_ of the secretary typing on her typewriter and the muffled, distant sound of enka  3 music on a record player. I could have been staring at the replication of a well-off Heian period lady's receiving room. Typical rich bastard Fujisakis.

I took a resigned seat in one of the chairs, feet barely touching the floor. I saw the secretary look up at me, curiously (did she think I was a delinquent?) but I stubbornly stared at the flower arrangement instead.

While I had been vigorously tutored in ikebana 4 until I never wanted to see another flower again, I lacked an eye for harmony and style. This one was heika 5 — I _thought_ , anyway. Possibly. My knowledge was purely technical; the branch hung over the vase, which meant it was a cascading style... I guess? The longer I stared at it, the sleepier I felt. It was a nice shape: a tall, pretty vase with its arching branches, willow and wisteria. Fujisaki-sensei had nice taste in dumb flowers. I closed my eyes, enjoying how nice it felt to rest my eyelids.

"I made that."

I jerked awake with a sickening lurch. Nadeshiko was standing there, looking rather smug; it took me a second to realize he was looking at the flower arrangement. What a prissy, obnoxious thing. Just like him.

"Nice heika. I really like the part where you stuck flowers in a vase."

He smiled humorously, as if he was about to make a very clever hiragana wordplay joke. "Thank you. It's actually a _nageire_."  6

What kind of pun was that? Choke on a hosepipe, Fujisaki.

Before I could say as much, he nodded at the door beyond, with an unreadable expression. "She's ready for you. _Do_ try to keep a civil tongue in your head, if it's not too difficult for you."

What gave him the idea that I struggled with speaking politely?! Shows how much he knew. I gave him a _look_ , opening the screen before he had a chance to do it for me.

The headmistress's office was an exact replica of the reception area, except it was bigger, grander, and emptier. It must have had something to do with aesthetics. The desk was centred on its own raised platform, and I spotted the record player that had been playing the enka music on a nearby shelf.

My attention then turned to the two cushions set out in front of Fujisaki-sensei, with a sinking , no, I knew what this meant.

Thanks for making me sit seiza,7 Fujisaki-sensei, god forbid you buy some normal chairs. I grew up in a relatively Western home, and every time I laid eyes on a cushion, I could practically feel my knees screaming. Seiyo had never sufficiently gotten me used to sitting still with my legs underneath me.

While Nadeshiko could sit as upright and graceful on a cushion as a peony does in dirt, I noticed that he instead opted to walk around his mother's desk and stand comfortably behind her seat, half in shadow. As for the headmistress, I could not tell you what she looked like; I was too busy staring at the floor. I did hear her speak, however.

"You may sit down, Mashiro-san."

I awkwardly dropped to my knees as if I was a block of cement dropped from great heights — not like _a bird settling into its nest_ , as Kichigai-sensei would like. I heard Nadeshiko barely repress a snort from his vantage point in the Shadow Realm, and I shot him a glare.

Reluctantly, I turned my gaze to Fujisaki-sensei. Many people said she was the spitting image of Nadeshiko; I had always privately disagreed. Her face was sharp, with cheekbones that could probably commit homicide. Nadeshiko's facial malice was that of warm butter and sugar; this woman made no pretense of softness, a cold-eyed war machine in a kimono. She was the _Yamato_ of the _Yamato Nadeshiko_ ; the unbreakable core of steel to Nadeshiko's gentle exterior.

I couldn't tell if her smile was genuine or sarcastic, and this terrified me. Even with her strict face, she was beautiful in an intimidating sort of way, and could not have been a day over thirty-five. There were rumours, resurrected every few years by a schoolgirl with romantic notions, that Fujisaki-sensei had once been a celebrated geiko in Gion. An accomplished dancer (so the stories went), she performed in the finest teahouses of Kyoto and overseas, causing quite a stir when she abruptly retired at the peak of her career to marry an equally eminent kabuki performer. I wasn't sure how much of this tale was a lie, but an accomplished dancer she must be: every one of the trophies behind her desk was for some sort of dance.

"Tea?" Fujisaki-sensei's eyes flashed, and she held up the teapot.

 _Oh no, don't give me the opportunity to mess up on drinking tea, Fujisaki-sensei_ , I mentally begged.

Pause. I glanced automatically to Nadeshiko for help. As unhappy as the prospect might be, he seemed my only ally in the room. After all, he had made an effort to speak to me when it would have been easy to pretend I didn't exist; I hoped he intended to help me navigate this dark world of veiled tradition in which I was hopelessly lost.

He gave me the tiniest nod. It could have been either acknowledgement or advice. I went with the latter, out of both politeness and starvation.

"Of course," I murmured, awkwardly, accepting the tea. "Thank you."

I hoped it wasn't poisoned. Nadeshiko shifted in the shadows and met my eyes, gesturing frantically.

I paused, staring at him. He was making a circular motion. I must have looked like a fool, staring slightly past Fujisaki-sensei's shoulder with a vacant look on my face. I suddenly understood what his hands were doing– tea ceremony. _Crap_. Very slowly, I began to rest my teacup on my right palm.

 _Left! Left!_ Nadeshiko mouthed, pointing to his left hand; I exhaled sharply, switched rapidly to my left palm, and spun the cup far too little before taking a rather large sip. I could clearly tell Nadeshiko had thought my cup turning a shoddy thing, from the way he slightly wrinkled his nose.

Fujisaki-sensei waited before speaking. Her voice was steady, her words spoken as if every one was deliberate and important.

"Nagihiko has just informed me that you discovered his identity last night, Mashiro-san. Is this true?"

I glanced up from my cup, bewildered. Who the hell was Nagihiko?

It was a moment before I realized that surely no mother would name their son _Nadeshiko_ ; that was practically asking people to shove him into lockers. Nagihiko... his real name was Nagihiko? It felt almost too personal, something obscene I should not use.

I glanced at Nag...eshko, but he was no longer looking at me; he was absorbed in the dancing trophies.

"Yes," I replied, quietly. I prayed that Nageshiko (?!) had not gone into specifics about how, exactly, I had figured this out – for some crazy reason, I didn't think his mother would be too impressed with the fact that I had stared at him shirtless for far longer than necessary.

"I see," Fujisaki-sensei raised her own cup to her lips in a beautiful vertical motion, arm sweeping up with gusto. It was painfully entrancing to watch her put it back down again.

"Firstly, I must beg your forgiveness. For a young lady such as yourself, I'm sure such a thing was quite a shock. If necessary, you may assure your family that no dishonour was done; this _incident_ will not leave the confidence of the three of us."

I was hardly worried about being damaged goods, and had little intention of telling my mother as much. It would only give her something else to worry about.

"Secondly, I understand that this is a huge secret to keep. But I believe you will find it takes little effort. Nagihiko is fully adept at making his own excuses; you will have to do little." Telling anybody Nagihiko's secret was not an option, from the final tone in her voice; I had expected as much, and indicated it with nothing but a nod.

"I feel..." Here, she hesitated, and I saw Nagihiko shift slightly. "... I personally feel that because of what you have witnessed... you are owed an explanation. You must have surely asked yourself _why_ we would do such a thing, despite keeping it to yourself. Yet, I hesitate, for our traditions can at times seem backward – almost barbaric – to outsiders."

Now she truly had my interest; she was a good storyteller, something even I could appreciate. Perhaps the stories of her being an entertainer weren't such poppycock after all. I nodded and settled down on my already-numb legs in preparation for a long story.

"Well, rest assured, being sorted into Nagihiko's room was an administrative mistake."

(Ha. I knew it. Typical incompetent Kichigai-sensei.)

"Nagihiko has always roomed by himself, for obvious reasons. The teachers that know about the true reason are a select few... perhaps an error, on my part. The shortsightedness of a mother's protection.

"Our family specializes in female-style buyō." Seeing my baffled look at the sudden topic change, she smiled gently. " _Nichibu_ , Mashiro-san. Traditional Japanese dance. We only dance female roles, in the style reserved for women. It makes sense, does it not? Nobody can appreciate a woman's beauty and grace more than a man."

I begged to differ.

"But a woman is a complicated thing, as you know. It takes many years to understand. This is why males in the Fujisaki line are raised as women, from the time they begin their dancing training to their stage debut.In order to play females realistically, we give our sons female names and garments. In doing so, they learn the mindset of the opposite gender more than any regular man could; it shows in their art, at how convincing we are at our craft. Do you know what _monomane_ is?"

I surprised myself by, indeed, knowing what _monomane_ was. I was expecting it to be a long, theatre-related word that I did not understand _._ _Monomane_ was a term used in comedy shows, for people that could humorously imitate famous figures; this definition, however, did not seem to fit with what Fujisaki-sensei was asking.

"Mimicry," I replied nervously, feeling as though this couldn't be the right answer.

"Simplistically, yes. For us, it has a deeper meaning; it is the intent of an artist to convey the character they are playing on the stage. It is transcending the character, becoming the person."

Privately, I thought this explanation a load of hogwash, and being raised as female smothering. Heeding the warning to keep a _civil tongue in my head_ , I kept my mouth shut and nodded.

"Nagihiko, like everyone else in our family, is destined for such a life. Oh yes," she added, seeing the mildly surprised look on my face, over the rim of my cup. "He will inherit this school, one day— but first, he will master all forms of traditional Japanese dance, as is customary in our family. Until then, he will live as a girl."

There was something forceful in the way she said it that took me aback; surely to play a role, nobody need be this strident. There was desperation in her voice, real emotion. Suspicious, I wondered if I wanted to know why, or ignore such an uncomfortable thing, as was tempting.

Nagihiko appeared not to have noticed, despite his apparent excessive interest in his mother's certificates. His mother followed my gaze, as if becoming aware for the first time that her son was there. The way she spoke as though Nagihiko wasn't in the room made me very uncomfortable, to the point where I was grateful when she turned around, sweetly:

"Nagihiko, dear– I'll have Shion show Mashiro-san out. Thank you for bringing her here; you may return to your classes."

Nagihiko gave me a reluctant stare, as though he didn't wish to leave me alone in the room with his mother. Who could blame him? The woman was, as eloquent as she was, still a bit frightening.

With little choice, he exited the room, throwing me a dubious look over his shoulder. Fujisaki-sensei waited until his footsteps had faded, before refilling my cup in silence. I silently continued slurping tea like a whale shark.

"Seiyo Girl's Academy was my father-in-law's idea." Fujisaki-sensei raised her head, staring at the ceiling over her head with something resembling fondness. _Great_ ; now I was getting a history lesson on my own school. Once a teacher, always a teacher. My stomach growled.

"Before the Meiji administration, this was a dancing school. But after the war, nobody had time for beauty and dancing... there were factories to run, iron to mine. So we opened our school for all girls who wished to learn. Some people scoffed at us. They said that a woman had no place in a school, that they should keep to their homes and learn domestic arts from their mothers. I disagree."

She looked back at me, smiling. I didn't know if I was supposed to smile back or not, so I kept my face poker-straight. Distracted, stomach yawning with hunger, I wondered when lunchtime was.

"To be a good wife, a woman must be educated on many topics. After all, what kind of man is interested in a simple-minded woman whose only thoughts are of cooking and children? Wise, worldly women raise strong sons. A boy learns more from his mother at the breast than he does in all his years of school. The fates of men are held and shaped in our hands, Mashiro-san."

Why was she telling me this? I could not speak for the children, but my only thoughts were definitely of cooking. Cooking pot stickers. _Pork-stuffed pot stickers..._ _yum_. God, why did I miss breakfast?

"This is why we educate women; so that they may educate sons for our country. But it is also more than ideal for Nadeshiko's education: what better place to learn how to be a woman than alongside other women, learning the skills he will need to portray them?"

Although my face was blank, I understood what Fujisaki-sensei was saying all too well. Nagihiko was destined to become a woman on a stage, a glamorous painted face in a kimono, and I was destined to become a woman in a kitchen, a _good wife_ and a _wise mother_. I felt something dark stir inside me. This couldn't be fair.

I swallowed, hard. "I see."

"Which leaves you, of course, Mashiro-san."

Me? Please. I wanted no part in this.

"I am left with a bit of a dilemma," she swilled the tea in her cup, staring down at it. I had no tea left. Oops. "On one hand, for you to stay in Nagihiko's room is unthinkably inappropriate for a well-bred lady."

"Yes." Yes, this is true.

"On the other hand, we are very overcrowded this year, what with the influx of new students. Space is sought-after enough already, and Nagihiko's single-boarder status has aroused enough rumours of favouritism already among students and teachers alike. It will not do to cause a ruckus by transferring you out now: people _will_ talk."

Oh, no, I didn't like where this was going.

"This aside, it would make a good learning opportunity for Nadeshiko, to ensure he is not isolated after classes. I raised him better than to be untoward. And, anyway..." There was a shrewd expression on her face; one that pried farther than it had a right to. I shrunk on the spot, back hunching over. My knees screamed with the pain of holding seiza.

"... It _is_ true that you are not the most well-bred of ladies... Mashiro-san. Due to your unfortunate circumstances, you are somewhat more expendable."

 _She knew._  How she had found out, I did not know, but I supposed it wouldn't be hard to figure out if one dug deep enough. It confirmed and deepened the dislike I had been cultivating for her throughout her speech. I wouldn't trust her with a bucket of water if my knickers were on fire.

Self-consciously, I said, quietly, "I do not mind remaining where I am, sensei."

My thoughts were full of nothing but Amu, as they always were; but this time, there was a little bit of Nadeshiko there, as well. No, not Nadeshiko— it was Nagihiko. He was not as cruel as he pretended to be, and he had helped me out today. I hardly felt friendly toward him, but at the very least, I had defrosted to the point of not minding if we shared a living space. There were worse roommates to have than Fujisaki Nagihiko; I would manage, especially when, according to Fujisaki-sensei, I had little choice. I might as well agree on my own terms.

"I will not mind," I said, a little louder. "If I can ask of you a favour, Fujisaki-sensei."

She regarded me with bright eyes, faint smile playing around her mouth. She looked like a panther before it eats its food. "Oh? Whatever could you have to ask of me, Mashiro-san?"

I hesitated. Not much, admittedly; but I was determined to get something out of this deal. Fujisaki-sensei held up a gentle hand, and I went silent at once.

"I understand, Mashiro-san, that it would be naïve of me to expect you to keep such a huge secret for nothing. I will let you think about what you want, and you may ask me after I've seen how things go. Clearly," and she spoke with a laugh in her voice, with a nod at me. "You enjoy comedy, which can be arranged– or if your parents wish to send you to university, or for you to marry into higher society. It all depends on where your family wishes you to go."

Clearly, for all of Fujisaki-sensei's airs, she at least dabbled in comedy shows enough to have understood my definition of _monomane_. I suppose Fujisakis had to study _all_ kinds of performance. Still, the idea of Fujisaki-sensei sitting beautifully with her lovely kimonos watching people slap each other with paper fans was a very amusing mental image. I had to stifle the urge to smile and pressed my lips together; it looked as if I had swallowed a lemon.

That aside, I had little interest in university. It was a man's world, for people with academic promise; I held little of that, and it would be a waste of money for zero payoff. And marrying up? Giving me a well-bred husband would be like giving gold coins to a cat.

I knew which one _I_ would choose, and which one my family would want me to choose. Thank goodness Fujisaki-sensei had just given me several months to think it over, because I knew that whatever I picked wouldn't please everyone.

I bowed low on the cushion towards her; I had lost all feeling in my legs from kneeling, so the sudden rush of blood gave me pins and needles. "Thank you very much," I said, dispassionately.

"You may return to class, Mashiro-san. It is... just past nine o'clock in the morning, so you are currently doing embroidery."

Embroidery. _Curses._ I nodded in understanding, and walked out of the sparse office, backwards.

The young secretary, Shion, left me at the door of my classroom, where I walked in with a resigned air. I knew Yaya would be dying to ask me why darling Nadeshiko, of all people, had pulled me out of music – and I had to think up some kind of excuse, and _fast_.

A tiny, elderly woman who was going slightly deaf taught embroidery; I was not concerned with being verbally dragged through the dirt, as I would be with Sanjo-sensei. Indeed, the woman gave me little more than a nod as I slid the door closed behind me.

Yaya noticed me immediately, and stage whispered in a voice loud enough to be heard by the entire classroom. "Rima-tan! Come sit with us!"

The four desks, mine included, were pushed together in a row. Yaya was at the end against the wall, closest to the window; next to her was Amu, desperately trying to salvage a mess of thread— and next to Amu, a waterfall of black hair glinting plum in the filtered sunlight. _Bollocks_. The only open seat was next to Nagihiko, and I could tell by the way his eyes glinted at me from across the classroom that he had _set it up this way on purpose._  I had no choice but to sit down at my desk on the end of the row, seething. What was he planning now?

"Here, Rima," Amu passed me my embroidery hoop, smiling obliviously. "Are you okay? Fujisaki-sensei wasn't too mean, was she?"

I stared at her. I then turned my gaze, accusingly at Nagihiko. I should have known that he would come up with a cover story before I could. Knowing him, it wouldn't be anything terribly flattering.

"She was okay, considering," I said vaguely, taking my embroidery hoop and re-threading my needle with a mournful air. Nagihiko saved me from speaking — a mixed blessing.

"You needn't worry about how you're doing in dancing classes, Rima-chan! We're all here to help you."

Dammit! Is that what my cover story is, Fujisaki? The fact that I have two left feet? I should have guessed as much. I shot him a glare. He beamed in unison with Amu and Yaya, all smiling quite eagerly.

"Of course, Rima. I-I'm not very good myself, of course, but I can give you a couple pointers!" What a lie. Amu had zero form, but she had what Fujisaki-sensei glowingly called a "radiant heart". Amu was almost as much a teacher's pet as Nadeshiko. Unlike Nadeshiko, she had absolutely no idea how it had happened. Helpless to deny it in the face of further suspicion, I made a noncommittal "hmmm" noise, and continued stubbornly stitching my yellow rose. Nagihiko skilfully switched the conversation to something appropriately ladylike, cherry blossom viewing or something, and I embroidered in silence while they chattered.

After a while, Amu and Yaya got distracted with talk of something-or-other about other schools, and Nagihiko joined my Silent Sewing Vigil. He had already made an exemplary scene with trailing wisteria branches on the surface of a pond. Typical nature junk; the teachers ate it up.

Watching his hands lovingly stitch the ripples on the water, I could hardly believe he was a boy. Everything, from his leg crossed girlishly over the other, to the delicate way he grasped the needle, was uncannily feminine. Even _knowing_ he was a boy, I was still somewhat fooled.

Before I could pretend I hadn't been staring at him, he turned to me, curtain of hair forming a barrier between him and Amu and Yaya; in a low voice, he continued stitching. "What did my mother talk to you about?"

I stared back at him, motives suddenly clear. He had set the desks up this way to interrogate me on what Fujisaki-sensei had said after he left. While Nagihiko was still the lesser of two evils, I wasn't exactly willing to tell him that his mother and I had a _quid pro quo_ about his transvestism.

"Well, my mother has been terribly concerned about how badly I am performing in dancing lessons, you see, Fujisaki-san." I raised my eyebrows at him, in a singsong voice. "So worried that she wrote the headmistress. Fujisaki-sensei told me I should work harder, and she's quite right, of course."

Nagihiko smiled softly back, although his eyes betrayed a hint of irritation. He truly had unfounded faith in his wheedling ability if he thought he could just flat-out ask me and expect an honest answer.

"Mashiro-san," he began to fill in the wisteria leaves, a soft, cloudy green colour. "My mother is very skilled at commissioning a hut and then demanding a castle."

I goggled at him, forgetting to be aloof in the light of his bizarre metaphors. "What does that even _mean_?"

"It means," he turned to look at me. The purple wisteria on his canvas stretched towards the water like reaching hands. "That if you made an agreement with her, you might end up with more than what you bargained for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. _Noh_ ( 能): A type of Japanese theatre. Rima is referring to their use of terrifying, white smiling masks that give me the creeps.
>   2. _Omiai_ ( 見合い): A marriage meeting.
>   3. _Enka_ ( 演歌): A Japanese musical genre that gained popularity during the 20th century. It's a cross between Western classical music and traditional Japanese instruments.
>   4. _Ikebana_ ( 生け花): Flower arrangement.  
> 
>   5. _Heika_ ( 瓶花): A type of flower arrangement in which flowers are placed in a tall vase, emphasizing horizontal lines.
>   6. _Nageire_ ( 投げ入れ): Another type of flower arrangement, from the verb "nage" literally meaning "thrown in". Thus, Nagihiko is making a sly jab at the fact that Rima's subtle insult was technically a compliment.
>   7. _Seiza_ ( 正座): The traditional, formal way of sitting in Japan, which involves kneeling with one's back straight and butt resting on the heels of your feet.
> 



	3. Alliance of White and Mauve

CHAPTER 3

 

白と藤の提携

Alliance of White and Mauve

 

 

 

 

About a month or so into the ridiculous sham that my school year was shaping up to be, I slowly began to learn to tolerate Nagihiko. Were it not for my pride, I might have admitted that he was not as bad as I had originally thought, that perhaps I had misjudged him. I suppose the human mind can get used to the oddest of things — even cohabiting with a calculating lizard.

Despite this, I found it difficult to let go of my grudges, and not without good reason. Behind closed doors, Nagihiko was quite tolerable. While unrestrainedly stupid and overly-friendly, he was also polite, bordering on meek. At school, however, he was still the obnoxious cow I hated: the Nadeshiko that was still Amu's best friend, still slighting, still insufferable. We treated each other with as cool indifference as ever in the social sphere, which was the way I liked it. His kindness in private meant nothing to me. _Nothing._

It wasn't difficult to avoid him; he was constantly absent from our dormitory. I had anticipated putting up with him twenty-four-seven, but between sleeping and the time he spent god-knows-where, we only had a few hours to share in each other's space.

Nagihiko woke up at six in the morning. Why someone would want to do such a thing was beyond me; Nagihiko never told me why, and I never asked. I was a light sleeper, and the combination of the sun in my eyes and Nagihiko's footsteps (light as they were) was often enough to wake me up.

The first time he inadvertently woke me – sometime during the first week of school – I sat up properly, rubbing my eyes. Nagihiko was pulling his hair into a ponytail over by the wall, and he gave me a very maternal glance over his shoulder. "Shhh," he had said, very gently. "It's only six in the morning. Go back to sleep."

I did. The memory still embarrassed me every time I thought about it. _What a twat_.

Anyhow, I would go back to sleep, only to wake up properly around seven-thirty. The room would be empty, Nagihiko would be off god-knows-where, so I would put on my uniform in solitude. Yaya and Amu would meet me in the West Hall for breakfast. Then it would be classes, where the poised Nadeshiko would be already sitting at her desk, smug and beautiful. _How?!_

Even more indignantly, after lessons, he would make himself scarce again and vanish off the face of the planet. At first, I assumed he was returning to our dormitory to study. This theory was disproven when I checked our room one afternoon: it was empty. Wherever Naghiko went, it was not anywhere I knew.

More worryingly, he often returned as late as eight in the evening. I used to wonder why Amu never ate breakfast or dinner with Nadeshiko. Now I had the answer: because he was always missing from the eating hall. Peculiar. I wondered if he was running an illegal drug trafficking operation from the cellar, or something.

But I had my own problems to worry about. Into the third week of April, I began to get antsy. My monthly was rapidly approaching. While notoriously short, it was life disrupting to the point that I wasn't entirely sure I could put on a brave face. When Yaya was my roommate, she had referred to it as seppuku with a silly grin on her face: swift and painful, bloody. How would I be able to hide ritual disembowelment from a male roommate? Only superstitious old fisherman still believed the menstrual cycle to be unclean, but the stigma was there nonetheless. School had drilled into my head that it was disgusting, to be concealed from men at all costs. Nagihiko was perceptive — frighteningly so — and, easily embarrassed, I was not looking forward to awkwardly dodging any questions he might toss at me.

I comforted myself with the thought that even if he _did_ notice, I could simply say I was ill. With this thought in mind, I fell asleep, on the last Wednesday of the month, with a somewhat lightened conscience.

When the sun rose the next morning, directly into my eyes, I found myself woken up by a familiar dull, stabbing pain in my lower abdomen. I could hear the creak of Nagihiko's footsteps on the wood flooring.

_Still six in the morning, then_. I groaned, rolling over, and tried to go back to sleep with my knees pulled to my chest and my pillow over my ears. It was like attempting to sleep through getting my liver chopped. Very reluctantly, I pulled back my covers, resigning myself to a morning of pain, drinking peach pit tea, and generally trying not to die.

Exactly as anticipated, Nagihiko turned around as I pulled my dressing gown on. "You're awake early," he commented mildly. Already dressed in a patterned furisode, his uniform was under his arm. Why was he in a formal kimono so early in the morning? Moreover, he looked ready to leave, with his hand on the doorknob. Good riddance. I was too in pain to care where he went.

I stood up out of bed, wobbling slightly on the spot; although I tried to look impassive, I kept a hand resolutely clamped to my stomach. His perfect, willow leaf eyebrows flew up in concern. Very deliberately, he put down his uniform on the desk.

_Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no._ Nagihiko would make dealing with my period exponentially more difficult; I was not in the mood to hide my discomfort. _Nooo! Leave! Begone from this place, Fujisaki!_

"Mashiro-san, are you all right? Sit back down. You look ill."

I gazed at him, rather blearily; I was about to shake my head, but hastily turned it into a nod instead. His misplaced concern touched me, but this was _really_ not necessary.

"I'll be fine, Fujisaki-san, don't worry," I said, trying to draw myself up haughtily. Instead, what came out was something along the lines of "I bloop floop, Fujisack, diddly womp."

This very profound statement did not seem to comfort him; on the contrary, his eyes widened. "Should I ask sensei to call for the doctor? Really, Mashiro-san, you look quite pale. Almost anaemic, really. I don't think you'll be able to attend class in this state."

As he spoke, I couldn't help but chuckle, rather darkly. Anaemic. If only he knew. I shook my head, and reached for the wardrobe handle, grimacing. "I'm just feeling a bit poorly," I said, in more of a whisper this time. This appeared to satisfy him; that is, until he broke the silence.

"...Is it your scarlet day?"

This spontaneous question threw me off immensely. I had a horrible inkling I knew exactly what he was implying, but I gave him a squinty look instead, as though I hadn't the faintest idea what he was asking.  

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Affair of the moon? First blossom of the month?" Smiling beatifically, he folded his hands. "Catamenia? Your monthly, Mashiro-san."

"No," I lied.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No," I lied again. Nagihiko's cheeks had turned a bit pink.

"O-oh. Well, I, ah... am not entirely familiar with this particular field, of course, nor do I pretend to be. But if I can be of assistance, let me know."

Why was he offering to help me? The entire thing obviously flustered him, which it should, because he was a boy. This was not his territory. He needn't give me charity. I gave him a suspicious glare over my shoulder.

Nagihiko shrugged back at me innocently, a bit of a smirk playing around his mouth. "I may be a man, but I _am_ supposed to immerse myself in the female form. Perhaps you should tell me more about your woman's pains so that I can express them in interpretive dance, or something."

His jocular tone was unnerving, but the mental image of Nagihiko doing an impassioned nichibu rendition of the cramping fetal position brought a strange, pressed smile to my mouth. It was _funny_.

He smiled back at me, encouraged. Clasping an arm to his stomach, he sank to his knees dramatically. Reaching out a single trembling hand, he hammed in his Nadeshiko voice. "Woe betides me! My womb is aflame with the fury of Ame-no-Uzume!"

I would not laugh, no matter how tragically accurate or funny it was. I pressed my mouth into a firm line, and Nagihiko got to his feet, winking. "See you in English, Mashiro-san. I'm running late."

Late for what, a marriage meeting? I couldn't think of anything else one would be doing in clothes as fine as that. I entertained myself for the rest of the morning with images of rich suitors sitting oblivious to the gender of the finely-dressed woman across from them.

True to his word, I saw him sitting in the English classroom after breakfast, a princess in his throne. "Good morning, everyone," he cooed in dulcet tones, tossing his ponytail over his shoulder. A book full of unfamiliar Roman letters was open in front of him, and he was steadily filling in the blanks with his pencil.

"Morning, Nade-chan!" Yaya enthused, throwing her arms around his thin neck. Amu gave a teeny wave, cheerily. "You're still working in your exercise book, huh, Nadeshiko? But we haven't been taught English in years, now." She laughed awkwardly, with a face full of guilt. "H-how diligent of you... aha...ha..."

I didn't blame her. Her English had always been abysmal, and when it was removed off the curriculum, I must say that we didn't mourn it too much. Leave it to Nadeshiko-chan to continue to self-study English far after the subject was cancelled.

"Why was English even removed?" I asked Amu, a little crossly. I took a seat next to Yaya, the farthest seat I could wrangle from Nagihiko.

"You just wish we were still taught English because you were the best in our class, Rima-chan!" Yaya remarked unhappily. "I remember Mister Foreigner kept trying to convert you, he was so in love with you and wanted you to marry him–"

"That did not happen," I interrupted flatly, although it must be said that our English teacher _was_ a youngish Presbyterian missionary who had given me a Bible at some point. Amu appeared to be still struggling with my question, but it was Nagihiko who answered me, in a very even, measured voice. "English was dropped from our curriculum because of educational reforms from the Japanese government. Western languages and literature were banned because the government feared socialist influence."

I made a sour face. _Socialist influences?_ Yaya also appeared somewhat ill at ease, and pouted childishly. "But then, you're still doing your practices, Nade-chan!"

"Of course." He smoothed down the page, with a smile. "Just because the subject has been officially cancelled does not mean it is entirely useless. We're supposed to use this time for self-study, English or otherwise."

Amu stared at him with a horrified face, as if he had crushed her heart and shattered her dreams. Nagihiko beamed back, in lilting English. "You are sad, Mrs Hinamori. What colour is your bicycle?"

"I am _not_ sad!" she replied back in indignant Japanese, and Yaya made an attempt at foreign languages. "Eggplant!"

Nagihiko, not to be deterred in his quest for academic perfection, drilled both of them in verb conjugations before moving on to a vocabulary list. I watched in silence, enjoying the fact that I wasn't getting picked on for English practice. Pain still stabbing my lower body, I tried to pull at the waistband of my skirt without anybody noticing. Ouch. _Ouch._

"Here," I heard Nagihiko say exasperatedly, shoving the book into Yaya's stomach so hard that she gave a little "oof!" (I sympathized with her stomach pain to the extreme.) "You practice with Amu-chan, and ask her for directions. I'll go practice with Mashiro-san."

Like hell you were, Fujisaki. Angry thoughts in vain, he moved his chair directly next to mine, so that our thighs were touching under our skirts. I moved over to the far edge of my chair, in cheery English. "Hello, Mr Fujisaki! Please get away from me. Goodbye."

" _Miss Fujisaki_ , Mashiro-san." He rapidly switched to Japanese, a sign that even he was exasperated with this Study Charade. "An amateur's mistake, I'm sure. Swallow this."

"Ex _cuse_ me?" I spluttered, before realizing that he was dropping a small, white pill into one of my skirt pleats. Suddenly, all my inside jokes about bootleg operations and drug cartels didn't seem so laughable. _Was he trying to sell me drugs?_ I held up the pill suspiciously. "What is this?"

"Asechirusarichirusan," he replied, promptly.

"What." A suspicious crease appeared between my eyebrows, and Nagihiko seemed to sense that he was on thin ice. He hastily amended the word in a whisper. "It's aspirin. Western medicine painkiller. Just swallow it."

My frozen heart was difficult to touch, but the fact that he had bothered to do something about it at all was both hilarious and nice-ish, two things that boded well with me. All the same... I had too many male admirers as is, and I refused to entertain the notion that Nagihiko could be one of them. Upon attracting the attention of Amu and Yaya's curious eyes, I crammed the aspirin into my mouth and Nagihiko hastily switched back to loud English. "I like dogs. What is your favourite colour?"

 I choked out "Lavender!" halfway through swallowing. Amu and Yaya both stared at me with some concern whilst my eyes watered.

Out of nowhere, Nagihiko let out a screech of mirth, bursting into a sudden fit of wild, maniacal laughter. Seeing Princess Nadeshiko in hysterics for the first time in her life was enough to divert the attention of the entire class and send Yaya into giggles. Of course, to distract everyone had been his intention; I would have admired him for it, but was reminded that his neck would be equally on the line if he was caught handling shady Western medication. All eyes away from me, I was able to gulp the aspirin and catch my breath.

"Fujisaki, do you care to share with the rest of us what is so incredibly _funny_?" a voice barked. Sanjou-sensei strode into the room like a warlord surveying her troops, heels clacking on the floor. Nagihiko's laughter died, and then very prettily: "Please excuse me, Sanjō-sensei. I was only laughing because Mashiro-san said something amusing."

I shot him a glare. Oh, he was blaming this on me, was he? I took it all back– he was not nice, not a bit. Everyone was back to staring at me, and Sanjō raised an eyebrow grimly. "Of course," she said, rolling her eyes. "Why is it _always_ you, Mashiro? Please share this insightful witticism with the class."

This was it. This was my moment. The Gods of Comedy had sent me an improvisation test in the form of nasty Fujisaki, their messenger, and I now had to come up with a funny gag on the spot. Stalling for time, I tried to be humble. "Witticism? You flatter me, sensei." Perhaps I could tell Sanjō-sensei that I made a crack about Fujisaki-sensei's lipstick resembling the blood of children, but that was a bit too distasteful for my current company. My only resort (much to my delight) would be to insult Nagihiko's appearance.

"I was merely pointing out that Nadeshiko-chan's beautiful eyebrows bear uncanny resemblance to daikon radishes," I said serenely,  That'll teach him to compare my head to a gourd. _Eat shit, Fujisaki._

Nagihiko smiled, but his eyes flashed, and I saw him touch his left eyebrow self-consciously out of the corner of my eye. Sanjō-sensei clearly didn't think comparing eyebrows to vegetation was half as funny as I did; her eyelid simply twitched, as if she was too sober for this. "Very well. Mashiro— keep your eyebrow judgements to yourself, yours aren't exactly much to marvel at, either. Fujisaki, your etiquette teacher would tell you that it's unseemly to show your teeth and bray like a donkey when you find something the least bit funny."

"Hee-haw," I whispered under my breath. I felt Nagihiko's pointy elbow jab my general womb area, and I crumpled over in my seat. Bitch.

Sanjō continued to talk, undeterred by my hunchbacked form and the over-eager smiling face of Nagihiko. She was peering at a piece of paper, which indicated that we were about to get a poetic manufactured speech straight from the hands of the headmistress or Kichigai-sensei. We could see Sanjō visibly struggling to translate the speech into words not written by a flower fairy. "As you know, it's springtime– and, er, if you have eyes, you would have seen the cherry blossoms outside."

Collectively, we all inhaled a breath of anticipation. Class outside?

"As you _also_ probably know, cherry blossoms… ah, what does this say… symbolize the ephemeral frailty of life… for Heaven's sake— and are an oft-studied subject in art."

Outside? Class outside? Outside?

"Since this is technically a free study period _for studying_ ," and at this, she flapped the paper, and glared at me and Nagihiko. I blinked back, regretting nothing. I sank my ship to kill his captain, as the phrase goes. "It's been decided that instead, we should all take our lunches outside and sketch the–"

" _Class outside_!" Yaya whispered like a steamship unloading several blocks of cement.

"– Yuiki-san, kindly shut your saccharine sockhole – and sketch the cherry blossoms before the flowers fall off the trees. There _will_ be other people there for flower-viewing parties, and I expect you all to set an example for the younger girls and keep your frolicking to a minimum."

Frolicking, schmolicking. Flower-viewing parties were notoriously noisy and drunken in their own right; if a few girls decided to frolic, I heartily doubted that anyone would complain, least of all Sanjō-sensei.

She held up a hand, and we all stopped dead, halfway through sitting up. "But first, I believe that you all have Home Economics at the moment," she added, without a flicker of a smile.

We groaned.

Normally, I hated cooking class. It was yet another opportunity for Nadeshiko to tenderly grasp Amu's arms and teach her how to whisk. Ever since I discovered Nagihiko's gender, my feelings towards this had gone from irritation to downright fury. What kind of gentleman just wipes his grubby hands all over my best friend like that, anyway? Fujisaki, that's who!

I was never very gifted in the culinary arts, myself. That's not to say I was _terrible_. I was no worse than Amu, who had a tendency to over-boil everything, nor Watarai Misaki, who had a tendency to set everything on fire (even in the absence of matches or a stove). I was just rather mediocre, and for a perfectionist like myself, it was irritating. Also, the teacher was a fascist in an apron.

Cooking class that day seemed reasonably tolerable; maybe even fun. We were making rows of coloured dango for that afternoon, which was an unusual deviation from the usual boring dinner dishes. I chalked it up to even the teachers feeling unmotivated to teach; the weather had warmed up over the month of March, going from near-winter to cool sunshine that tempted even a shut-in like me to open the doors.

"Okay, okay, children!" Kohagi-sensei said in her squeaky mouse voice, folding her hands together and beaming. "Everyone, please form groups of three!"  

I lunged for Yaya. Yaya lunged for Amu, and Amu predictably lunged for her precious Nadeshiko. Nagihiko stood there and giggled behind his hand, as if the entire thing was terribly amusing. It most certainly wasn't, especially when Kohagi turned on us, round eyes glinting with the wrath of a thousand bees. "Oh, dear! There are four people here!" she buzzed, hands fluttering with umbrage. 

I opened my mouth, prepared to take Yaya and go find another group– but that would be a concession of defeat to Nagihiko, who still had Amu on his arm with a faint smile. Yet, I couldn't just grab onto Amu's arm myself like the overprotective mother I was.

No; I would have to be sneaky.

"I want to be in a group with you, Nadeshiko- _chaaaaan_!" I wailed, flapping my way towards Nagihiko's other arm like a drowning duck. I clung onto his sleeve and gave him the malevolent side-eye. He wasn't about to defile Amu's maidenly body on my watch.

In contrast, he looked somewhat flattered. I fought the urge to tell Nagihiko the truth — that it was all a fancy ruse to obstruct his friend-stealing — but instead clutched tighter. Yaya and Amu both turned around to stare at me on Nagihiko's arm, as if I had suddenly announced that I was the Minister of Agriculture.

"R-Rima!" Amu squawked like a pink chicken, flapping her arms. "You're sure? I-If we all want to be a team, I guess that's okay… I'm really sorry, Yaya! We'll be in a group together next time!"

Yaya didn’t look too put out about it; on the contrary, she was giving me a rather sly look that I didn't like the look of at all. I hoped that she figured out the truth, instead of one of the horrifying alternatives; Yaya suspecting me of harbouring romantic feelings for Nadeshiko-chan was possibly more than I could bear. Especially because she couldn't keep a secret.

"Boo, meanies!" she wailed. "I'm going to go cook with Utan!"

Indeed she did. The moment Yaya turned around, she bumped into the infamous woman herself, face sinking into her ample chest. Hoshina, as unflappable as ever, looked embarrassed but poised. "Straighten up and get over to the other stove, Yuiki. This isn't a circus."

She gave us a fleeting disdainful look over her shoulder, as if we were blackballing Yaya from a three-man oligarchy, or something.

 I relinquished his arm immediately, zooming towards Amu. "We have to mix the rice flour, first," I said, very helpfully.

Amu and Nagihiko were rather unnerved by my sudden gung-ho attitude about cooking with my pals. Eventually Amu, being a gullible idiot, stopped giving me strange looks and started smiling and enjoying herself. She must have thought that I was fostering bonds of friendship with Nadeshiko under the pressure of rooming together.

Nagihiko, on the other hand, guessed all-too-well what my real objective was from the way I wedged myself comfortably between the two of them. To his credit, he didn't say a word; in fact, if anything, he was acting a bit _too_ nice.

"Here, you're not stirring it right," he gently interceded, putting his hand on the wooden spatula with which I was ferociously stirring the rice flour-and-water concoction. I allowed him to do so, because it was better than him making moon-eyes at Amu. "You stir by crushing it down, not simply going in a circle. Here, try it."

His tone was so soothingly maternal that I did so without little fuss. The rice flour began to mix much better, much to my annoyance, and Amu clapped her hands in delight. "Woah, keep it up, Rima! At this rate we'll be done before everyone else!"

Grudgingly, I let myself feel a bit of pride. Okay, so Fujisaki wasn't entirely awful at cooking; I should have expected it, given his proficiency in every other feminine craft offered by this damn school. It was a happy, glowing three minutes before I realized that Amu and Nagihiko both had their hands on my shoulders proudly, and they were grinning at each other over my head.

Damn it to hell! I was acting like their surrogate child! _I had brought them together in holy matrimony_! Clearing my throat very loudly, I shoved the bowl away and pointedly glared at Nagihiko. _Keep your smiles to yourself, flower boy._

Nagihiko continued grinning and radiating smugness, like some kind of Smug Sun. "Oh, Rima-chan!" he said in singsong voice, licking his finger and rubbing at a spot on my cheek. "You've got rice flour on you."

"Please refrain from transmitting salivary diseases onto my face, Nadeshiko-san!" I tried to singsong right back — but being tone-deaf, I sounded more like a warbler attempting to throat sing. Amu choked out a laugh, and hastily covered it up with a coughing fit.

"Ah, you two…" As I rubbed Nagihiko's spit off my cheek, Amu spoke wistfully in the voice she reserved for inspirational monologues about friendship. "There's three of us, isn't there? So we can each work on a type of dango, now that we're through stirring."

It would indeed be efficient for each of us to work on a different type. Eager to do as little work as possible, I pulled the bowl towards me protectively. "I want white." The white ones were unflavoured, and boiled first; it meant I would be done quickly, and free to laze around. Or keep an eye on Nagihiko's wandering hands. Either one.

"Amu-chan?" Nagihiko politely turned towards Amu, who fumbled about for several seconds. Evidently, she had been off in dreamland. "I-I'll take pink!"

The dough was split into three. I took my portion and began rolling it into balls with the reckless abandon of someone who wishes to get a task done quickly. I felt Nagihiko's disapproving eyes on the side of my face; thankfully, I had plenty of practice mentally blocking his reproachful law-abiding stare.

"Here, Amu-chan, you're rolling them a bit misshapen." Nagihiko's hand reached across my body to attempt to fix Amu's dismal cooking skills. Thank goodness I was standing there to get in their way, like a roadblock.

"E-eh- really?" Amu blinked down at the table, and I felt a twinge of annoyance.

"Mmm-hmm," patiently, "You should be making them smaller, and flattening them with the palm of your hand, like this–"

"You sure know a lot about balls, Nadeshiko-chan," I said loudly. He tossed his ponytail so that it slapped me in the face. _Trollop_. I was heartily tempted to pull it, but I instead reluctantly walked over to the pot to drop my dough in, glaring disdainfully at them all the while. Why must he be so… _handsy?_

True to my own assessment, I was left with free time to stare and glower at the backs of Nagihiko and Amu's heads. Amu seemed to be heartily aware of my cold stare. Perhaps that’s why she was distinctly more clumsy than usual; her hands trembled as she mixed. Nagihiko, in contrast, seemed far too at ease under my gaze. The fool might be able to thaw out the Siberian tundra if given the means and patience, and such a thought unsettled me more than it ought have.

After that, the dango were skewered in order – green, white, pink – and packed into boxes. Pairing up with Nagihiko had been unusually prudent of me, earning me an approving nod from Kohagi-sensei. Sanjo and Kichigai-sensei appeared at the door shortly after, the latter of which was trembling with emotion in a shawl.

"Hats on, girls," Sanjo-sensei barked. "An orderly line out of the school."

It was all she needed to say; I snatched my hat from the hooks at the front, cramming it onto my thick hair. Amu proceeded to get crushed in the ensuing shuffle, much to her shouting distress.

We moved in an unorganized blob, like a wandering murder of crows. It took Sanjō's flashing eyes to sort us into straight lines, two-by-two, arms linked. The younger girls were giddy, dragging ahead; I, for my part, remained in the back, hands folded primly. It would not do me any good to run. _Running was not ladylike._ Yaya, too, hung about in the back, pestering Sanjō-sensei with questions, much to everyone's amusement.

"Sensei, how old are you?" she hounded, jumping at her side.

"You do not ask a lady's age. However, you may ask her earthly branch. I was born in the year of the Horse."

Yaya paused at this, chin crinkling in frustration; it forced her to do sums, and she never had much aptitude with the abacus. I mentally calculated, saving Yaya the trouble. Sanjō-sensei was either eighteen or thirty: either prospect was horrifying. Yaya impatiently ploughed onwards. "But why aren't you married, Sensei?" A pause, and then, realizing her rudeness, she spun it into a rather sly flattery scheme. "Only because you're so pretty. Why do you spend your time teaching us girls?"

"I almost was." Sanjō-sensei pushed up her little round glasses, lenses flashing; talk of marriage was enough to get the attention of several other girls. She cleared her throat, raising her voice. "Before the gods punished me for straying out of line when my teacher told me to stay in a group, and now I’m _doomed to a life of widowhood_."

That was all we got out of her. No matter how much Yaya begged her for the story, and Nagihiko's bright eyes hovered, she stayed tight-lipped and sour-faced. Eventually giving up, I reluctantly followed Yaya to the front, where Nagihiko and Amu were walking arm-in-arm like elderly men out for a walk in the park.

"Can you believe Sanjo-sensei isn't married?" Yaya hissed in Nagihiko's ear, scandalized. Nagihiko just smiled.

"I can," I volunteered, helpfully. Amu's nose crinkled a bit in a smile, as if she was inclined to agree, and I considered it a triumph that I had almost made her laugh.

"Well, you know," Nagihiko began, lightly. "Not everyone is interested in marriage. Some women prefer chastity... or the company of other women."

He tittered behind his sleeve knowingly. In spite of myself, I stared at him with interested eyes. It appeared to whoosh over Yaya's head. Amu, on the other hand, went scarlet. "Na _deshiko!"_ she hissed, in a scandalized tone. "N-N-N-"

"Ehhh...? There's no need to play coy, you know, Amu-chan." Our group was gradually drifting away from the rest of our classmates; Nagihiko had casually turned the corner and walked us up another street, as though the village belonged to him. Now that I thought about it, the village really _might_ belong to him; it did not seem beyond imagination that the Fujisakis were mean feudal lords who held dominion over the entire prefecture. I couldn't help but be entranced by Nagihiko's mesmerizing hair-flicking. "Do you mean to say that you _don't_ , as a matter of fact, prefer the company of women? Who do you prefer the company of, then?"

"That's hardly...!" she began, in the familiar tone she used when she was trying to stall a question. Thankfully, in that moment, she was saved: a blissful distraction came in the form of a man intercepting us on the road. Despite the fact that he was dressed like any other errand boy from Tokyo, in trousers and suspenders, he carried an odd air of haughtiness unbefitting of his station.

The silence, save for birds tweeting, was excessively awkward. "Hello!" Yaya said obliviously, twiddling her thumbs and rocking back on her ankles like a proud uncle as a way of greeting. In response, he barely inclined his head, short-spoken and laconic.

"... The miss on the left," in a monotone, nodding at Amu, procuring something from his pocket. "Is this yours?"

I narrowed my eyes; it was plainly a sheaf of linen, not silk, embroidered at the corners with red. Amu gasped, raising a hand to point to her own handkerchief in shock. "Th-that's mine, yes! " she replied, flustered. "But how...?"

He seemed unwilling to reply, which only aroused Nagihiko's suspicions, judging from the wrinkle in his brow. I, on the other hand, fancied it very plausible that someone would trace a hankie with inane strawberry embroidery back to Amu like a head to its body.

Despite misgivings, Nagihiko was swift in explanation, filling Amu's embarrassed silence with chatter. "Ah, how silly. You must have dropped it at the village train station! In all the chaos it would be quite easy to misplace." He bowed cursorily, taking it from his hand daintily. "Amu-chan should take better care of her things. Thank you very much for all your trouble, sir."

"Sure," he replied, robotically. It would have been natural for a man of good breeding to bow to us before going on his way – or at least wish us a good-day – but he did neither. Instead, he wordlessly touched the brim of his hat, still staring at Amu, and vanished into an alleyway as if he was melting into the wall itself.

It was odd, to see such a man so far from Tokyo. I wondered if Nagihiko thought the same thing, and turned to ask. Before I could, Yaya started giggling.

"Hm?" Nagihiko enquired, baffled.

"He was quite, you know... _good-looking_ , wasn't he?" Yaya giggled into her sleeve. I made a noncommittal noise in my throat; Nagihiko laughed fakely. Then, as one being, we turned to stare at Amu.

"Wh-what?" She demanded defensively, stuffing the handkerchief up her sleeve like it was incriminating evidence. "So what if he's good-looking, Yaya? Don't just ogle people up like they're pieces of beef-!"

I myself suspected that she was grateful for the subject change as we approached the rows of cherry blossom trees, growing by the river's edge. We rejoined the group just in time to hear Sanjo-sensei say, "... there you are, girls. Take an ink pot each, please, and I'll call you back in an hour."

Easels tucked under our arms, brushes and ink in our hands, we dissipated into the hills to settle down and draw. I already had a game plan; I planned to pick the shabbiest, tiniest looking tree I could find in order to conserve ink (and effort). In several minutes, I had stumbled upon the prime candidate. It was clearly not more than ten or fifteen years old and a pitifully crippled monstrosity; perhaps it had been nibbled by deer, or by disease. At first I felt quite sorry for it.

The longer I stared, the more funny the tree seemed to be. Stunted though it was, one of its branches bent back in on itself in a rather arrogant motion, and the smattering of cherry blossoms looked more like flyaway hair than anything. With the faintest of smiles, I painted a very crooked and imperfect line with a halting brush, and began painting.

I enjoyed the silence and the space to be alone, but I was also wistful of the flower-viewing parties, hovering on the sides of my vision. The raucous shouts of people's fathers and splashes of children in the river made me nostalgic for something I had never had. By the time an hour had gone by, I was friends with the Midget Tree, and very much resentful at being called back for lunch— a first, for an area in which I lacked interest. Surprisingly, Sanjō-sensei had set up what looked like a picnic under a willow tree by the river, and I wondered if she wasn't as much of a stick-in-the-mud as she pretended to be. Much to nobody's surprise, Amu and Nagihiko were already comparing progress on their easels, and lumping compliments on each other like pigs with mud.

"I can't believe we were drawing the same tree," Amu exclaimed mournfully. "How did you manage to capture all of the bark in one stroke like that— as expected from Fujisaki-san, I guess…"

"You musn't be discouraged like that, Amu-chan," he encouraged back, in his fluttery falsetto. Nagihiko's painting was more unfinished looking, with barely any lines on the page. I could see that every stroke had been deliberately thought out like a tactician's on a map of the battlefield. Amu had decided to start with the flowers rather than the branches, to interesting effect. It was messier and more complete, that's for certain. Even in painting Amu was as scatterbrained and torn between things as ever.

"Rima-chan, what kind of tree is that supposed to be?" Yaya said loudly, before laughing like a hyena. With a scowl, I hid my easel under my arm. "You wouldn't understand, Yaya," I said, in my most haughty voice only reserved for eta. "You don't have an artist's eye."

Nagihiko leaned to the side, narrowing his eyes at my easel. "I see what you mean, Rima-chan–"

"Don't call me that," I said, but he talked over me like I hadn't said a word. "One of my painting masters in Italy once told me that some artists are naturally drawn to things that remind them of themselves."

A crease appeared between my eyebrows, and, without a word, I turned on my heel and walked away from them. Over my shoulder, I heard Amu tentatively ask, "Nadeshiko, wasn't that a bit harsh?" His reply was lost to the underlying chatter.

Me stomping away from Nadeshiko looked impressive in theory, but there was nobody else who would let me sit with them. Then I spotted two bobbing pigtails off in the distance, and was saved. The ever-tall and huffy looking Hoshina-san seemed to tolerate me sitting next to her relatively well. I counted on her not to acknowledge my presence, and she did not; she only appeared even more engrossed in her sake cup.

… Her sake cup.

"I wasn't aware that girls were permitted to drink, Hoshina-san," I couldn't resist from commenting, eyeing it up dubiously.

Hoshina seemed to merely relish in my disapproval, swishing the fermented rice swill around even more. I caught the faint whiff of something sharp and burning, like the smell of a chemical cleaning agent. "Don't place the blame on me," she replied very aloofly. "Sanjō-sensei is the one who brought it in the first place."

I turned around. Sure enough, Sanjō was drinking directly from the bottle like a woman with nothing left. Beside her, Kichigai-sensei was also throwing back considerable alcohol, surrounded by a gaggle of begging girls.

"Please, sensei!" one cried. "Just a bit! You've brought so much, look–"

"Oh, for heaven's sakes," she snapped, but finally relented under the gaze of pleading eyes. I did not trust that it would taste good enough to warrant a glass; ever presumptuous, I turned to Hoshina-san. "May I try some?"

She looked at me, eyebrow raised, quizzical. "You'd better not drink it all, you know," she told me as she passed the still-lukewarm cup to me. Delighted at this show of female comradeship, I tried to take a tiny, ladylike sip. The smell overpowered everything– burning and acidic, I felt like my nose hairs were being seared off. My eyebrows pulled together, my mouth tightened, and I hastily passed it back.  To my surprise, Hoshina-san gave a short exhale indicative of laughter. "Tastes different, eh?"

"A bit, yes." I bit a dango off a skewer, to somehow cover up the burning taste in my mouth. Not one for chatter, she simply shrugged in reply, as if to say, _that's what you get for asking, you fool_. And then— "Let's see that painting Fujisaki-san was snickering about."

I gave her a look like a kicked cat. With a rather pitiless stare back, she cocked her head to the side. "If you're truly that sensitive to criticism, how can you call yourself an artist? If people really have a genuine qualm with what you've painted, you should listen. But never turn down an opportunity for objective analysis."

"You just want to see if I look like the tree."

"Obviously." 

I could hardly argue with this no-nonsense attitude. With a sulky look, I unveiled my work in progress. Perhaps I had been unnecessarily harsh on Hoshina, who was proving to be reasonable in her tactlessness. She may not have had Nadeshiko's diplomacy, but she was not an unappreciated ally.

For a long while, she did not speak; her almond-shaped eyes, with their thick black eyelashes, were staring at the paper. After an uncomfortably long duration, she sat back. "Well, I can see what Fujisaki-san means. But Mashiro, really, you're a slacker. It's artistic, to be sure, but weren't you just trying to conserve effort?"

I chose not to reply, and instead stared at her indignantly. "Do you think it's terribly clever to insult me by saying my growth is stunted?"

"Not at all. Fujisaki-san wasn't insulting you. She was just being petty."

This was a new concept, and I took a moment to mull it over. The most bizarre opportunity was being offered to me– the possibility that Nadeshiko was not out to get me. It was so foreign that I couldn’t resist. "May you elaborate, please?" I asked stiffly. Hoshina-san took another sip.

"You're a bit dull, aren't you? It was a compliment disguised by an insult." I opened my mouth to retort, but the ever-laconic Hoshina held up a huffy hand. "The tree you painted… what did you think of it, really?"

Normally I would hold back, but in my determination to find out Nagihiko's motives, I laid myself bare. "At first I thought it was rather pitiable, but I warmed up to it."

"How so?"

"Well," I replied, slightly flustered, "Small, damaged things are always a little endearing."

"And that, Mashiro-san, is your answer." Hoshina polished off her sake, in a superior tone. "Have a bit of discernment. Has it ever occurred to you that people are cruel to people they wish to befriend?"

No, it had not occurred to me, but only because it was the _stupidest thing I had ever heard_. I didn't give a damn if Nagihiko found me endearing, especially if it came from a place of pity. Hoshina-san seemed to see this doubt reflected in my eyes. "Listen," she added, leaning forward. "When young village boys want to get the attention of a particular girl, they bully her and throw rocks. Fujisaki-san's been getting under your skin for years. Perhaps she simply has the mind of an idiotic, immature bo–"

"Why, Hoshina-san!" a familiar chiming of bells rang out, and Nagihiko descended on us like menacing clouds on a sunny day. "I've never heard you talk so much in one sitting– or Rima-chan, for that matter! I suppose that placing two people of few words in each other's company creates an adverse effect."

Even Amu, standing behind her, seemed rather taken aback by Nadeshiko's need to intervene in the conversation. With new illumination, however, I found it nearly laughable. This childish streak in the perfect Nadeshiko persona gave me private satisfaction. I did not believe that Nagihiko wished to befriend me. However, I _did_ believe that he could harbour jealousy over Hoshina being a potential rival of mine. In fact, the more I mulled it over, the more it made sense for Nagihiko to feel threatened. Hoshina-san was a striking beauty, older by a year, and the only woman in the entire school who could outdo Nadeshiko in song. In addition, the Hoshinas were exactly the type of nouveau-riche, self-made men that the tradition-based Fujisaki dynasty would abhor.

My affection for Hoshina quadrupled. 

" _Haaaah_? What are you even saying, Fujisaki-san?" Hoshina nickered in a dangerously girly voice. Amu jumped in, hastily. "She's not saying anything, Utau, we just came over to say hello-"

"Then please," she said, sardonically. "Sit down, by all means, and wait for me to finish."

"Should you really be drinking?"Amu cut in, but Hoshina raised her voice to talk over her. "Like I was saying, Mashiro-san: an idiotic, immature village boy. Remember." 

Amu shot me a questioning look. Nagihiko's face remained as sunny as ever. I kept my lips closed throughout the rest of lunch.

With reluctance, I returned to my little tree that afternoon with the shrewd face of a businessman who wishes to close a deal quickly. I would paint this heinous tree, roll it up, give it to the art instructor and be done with this entire mess. It seemed that Fujisaki Nagihiko had different ideas for me, however; he was already underneath the tree, waiting for me with an excessively placid smile.

"Good afternoon, Rima-chan."

"Don't call me that."

His smile seemed to falter; determinedly ignoring the look in his eyes, I sat down and picked up my paints. His next sentence was determinedly calm. "It's a lovely day out, isn't it? I hope you don't mind if I sit here; I've already finished."

"I do, but that won't stop you." Impatiently, I glanced. I had enough of Nadeshiko's mind games, and now that I had a direct line to him, I thought I could speak frankly. "There is nobody else here, Fujisaki-san. Don't waste time putting on your act."

For a minute, I thought I had caused his Noh mask to slip. Nagihiko's upturned mouth pressed into an angry line, and his dark eyes flashed. In several moments, however, the mask was back in place and his mouth was a smiling crescent. "Everybody is always putting on an act, Rima-chan. You are, I am, Amu is. People are quick to assume that a costume change is someone's true self."

I was not prepared for such a philosophical revelation. Looking him up and down haughtily, I returned my attention to my parchment and drew an unconvincing tree knot. Reluctantly, the words slipped out. "'All the world's a stage.' "

"'... And all the men and women merely players,'" Nagihiko finished, grinning. "Quoting Shakespeare? Tsk, tsk. The emperor would be ashamed of your British sympathies."

I did not smile. Where was he going with this? My tree stretched out towards Nagihiko with pleading hands, and my brush fell over the edge of the parchment.

"You know, I think all people are fundamentally the same. What we call 'personalities'.. I think they're simply different acts, cycled at whim, developed from a young age to cope in social situations." Nagihiko appeared to enjoying his own philosophizing far too much. "There's no shame in it. 'Nadeshiko' is just as real as your ice queen charade _._ "

I flinched, and then glowered. "Forgive me, Fujisaki-san, for I cannot follow your trail of thought."

"Mashiro-san, it's unbecoming for you to play dumb to make a point." He tilted his head to the side, tugging his ponytail tighter.

I swallowed, and it tasted bitter. "... Excuse me, then. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I fear you."

My brush went still, and I stared into the sockets of the Noh mask with wide, panicked eyes. Something stirred behind them, an all-encompassing sadness. "Is it that hard to imagine?" Nagihiko enquired, with a laugh. "I'm not the only one intimidated by you, you know."

My mind was racing, eyes blank. He feared me? All this time, Nadeshiko had cowered in fear of a short, powerless, middle-class girl with no prospects and a shaky future? The irony was almost physically painful. Nagihiko was a fool. "You're a fool," I scoffed, wasting no time in tearing a strip off him. "Why would you think such a thing?"

"Because you're far too insightful for your own good," he retorted, and now there was little trace of pleasantry; it had melted away into raw accusation. "Amu-chan might not notice you, Mashiro-san, but I can see you silently observing everything under your nose and filing it away. You can smell manipulation out faster than a bloodhound. I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you."

"What's this feeling?" I whispered sarcastically, staring off at the mountains. "Why, Fujisaki, I do believe my heart is melting."

"You know what I am, how I am currently living." For some reason, Nagihiko's usage of _what_ rather than _who_ bothered me more than it should have– it was an odd word choice for a man who picked his words deliberately. "My mother told me that if anybody discovered by identity while I was playing the role of Nadeshiko, it would be nobody's fault but my own, and proof that I was not disciplined or skilled enough to inherit the family name. I was hardly about to let my family prospects be spoiled by some upstart classmate who peered too closely, so I pushed you away."

"With snide remarks and schoolgirl bullying," The bitterness rose in my voice, despite all efforts.

I expected him to be meek and apologetic. Instead, his voice became very earnest. "Yes. It was the only way I knew how. I didn't have very many friends my age growing up, and the intricacies of interaction confuse me. …It's easy to forget that you aren't my enemy anymore, and I beg your pardon on that front."

Curses, he could beg forgiveness without an iota of shame; my general attitude had always been that I shouldn't apologize if it could be avoided, yet he did it without hesitation. He continued on. "Back then, I hoped that you would avoid me after being insulted enough. Instead, it simply drew us together by virtue of having the same friends. But now you know, Mashiro-san. And I feel – well–"

"You... feel?" I asked slowly, as though an iguana was proclaiming its fondness for macro-economics.

"I feel... _free_." He exhaled the word as if it was holy, and his eyes widened maddeningly. My heartstrings couldn't help but tug with pity at this miserable boy in a skirt, trapped in an obi-shaped prison. "I'm grateful that you're on my side."

"Am I, now?"

"With little choice in the matter, of course." His tone had turned businesslike, and I relaxed slightly. Nagihiko speaking of emotions was not something I was ready to see; it felt vulgar, like seeing an inappropriate poster on a wall. "I would not dare presume friendship, but you would be a very valuable ally to me, if you consent to it."

"An... _ally?"_ I repeated, bemused. "Really, Fujisaki-san, do you plan to conscript an army and invade a neighbouring prefecture any time soon?"

"Even in peacetime, an ally is a good thing to have. You're a clever girl. We can help each other out." He leaned forward, tone loving like a mother's caress. "You could use my assistance, Mashiro-san. We both know it. What's more, you would no longer force Amu to pick between her friends."

He was dangling the carrot in front of my nose, but I wasn't so foolish to fall prey to a simple thing so quickly. Shrewdly, I asked, "That's all well and good, but what is it that you're wanting out of me, Fujisaki-san?"

"Nadeshiko."

"Nadeshiko," I conceded, with no honorific to speak of. My tone was condescending. "What do I have to offer you?"

He tucked his hair behind his ear, with a rather surprised look. "Why, Mashiro-san, I should have thought that obvious. I want your cooperation."

I narrowed my eyes. "Cooperation? What are you planning?" The aspirin drug cartel, the talk of military allies: it was all coming together in a glorious mental image of Nagihiko the shady merchant kingpin, smuggling opium across the seven seas. Oh, my God. _He wanted me to smuggle drugs._

Nagihiko smiled his best Drug Smuggling smile. "I'm always planning something, Mashiro-chan. A good lady always is. But I'm speaking in the general sense of the word. I'm asking," he added, voice softer, "To be tolerated. My mother has your loyalty by force, but I'm asking for it by choice."

My mouth went a bit dry. It suddenly occurred to me why so many girls fell in love with Nadeshiko; it wasn't the oval face, or radishy eyebrows, it was his _voice_. He spoke gently and earnestly, as if I was his sole saviour. It was madness to swear loyalty to an old enemy. It was madness to make alliances as if this was a war. But doesn't a woman already make allies when she makes friends?

I swallowed, and nodded.


	4. Brothers and Sisters

CHAPTER 4

 

兄弟姉妹

Brothers and Sisters

 

 

 

 

Breakfast the next morning was unusually good: steamed rice, topped with tonkatsu, strips of seaweed and Worcestershire sauce. Nobody was more delighted than Yaya, who kept shovelling in seconds with nothing short of enthusiasm. Between bites, she refused to stop talking about food, much to everyone's general weariness.

"We always eat horse mackerel at home," Yaya gushed, sticky rice sticking to the corner of her mouth. "Dried horse mackerel, raw horse mackerel, horse mackerel in soups, horse mackerel on rice with that really good sauce, you know, Amu-chi, that sauce, the one–"

"This isn't horse mackerel, Yuiki," Hoshina-san replied, nibbling on a piece of rice like a rabbit. "This isn't even horse. This is pork."

Hoshina-san had began to sit with us for breakfast and dinner, amid very profuse claims that she was only sitting over here because we "shouldn't misunderstand, it's warmer on this side of the room," that she was doing it for her sake, and that we shouldn't "flatter ourselves into thinking it was because of our riveting conversational skills". She blushed and huffed a lot as she said it, which made me think that Hoshina-san was a great deal weirder than I first thought.

"Was it okonomi sauce?" Amu contributed, helpfully, but it was too late – Yaya had already been distracted, eyes lighting up maniacally. "Pork! _Pork!_ When I lived in Taiwan, they had _koah-pau_ which are stuffed full of pork, and _bao_ stuffed with pork except the pork is roasted, and also pork stuffed within pork –"

" _What?_ " Hoshina interjected loudly, face incredulous.

"Yes, pork stuffed within pork which is stuffed within–"

"I don’t believe that," Hoshina replied dismissively, "You can't stuff pork within pork, that's unethical and disgusting. But when were you in Taiwan?"

"I was about to ask the same thing," Amu interjected curiously, leaning across the table so that her wispy hair ends threatened to trail in her rice. Very helpfully, I put a hand under her hair. If my own mouth wasn't stuffed full of food, I would have smugly reminded Amu and Hoshina that _I_ knew Yaya was Chinese and that they were clearly all terrible friends for not knowing. But unfortunately, my mouth _was_ full, so I was forced to sit sullenly with hamster cheeks.

" _Mashiro!"_ Kichigai-sensei hooted like an owl from the far corner, flapping her arms in paroxysms of grief. " _A-lady-does-NOT_ stuff her cheeks full of _food_ like some kind of _BLOWFISH_. What will your _future husband say_ if he catches you _cramming your mouth full of rice like some kind of STARVING ORPHAN_?"

I quickly tried to hack it all down in one go, which was a mistake; the pork got stuck in my throat, and I began to cough.

"Wellllll," Yaya beamed over the sound of me choking. "My mother and little brother–"

At that moment, Misaki stuck her head into the eating hall, with an almighty bellow. " _Post's here_!"

There was a rustle and the sound of benches scraping back. Girls scurried towards the door in a rush, like some kind of stampede. Since when did everyone like getting mail so much? Before anyone could so much as blink, Yaya, too, had launched herself out of her seat and joined the conglomeration of black skirts shrieking and cooing.

" _Kukai-chan_ , _Kukai-chan,_ " one girl wailed, "Where's mine, where's mine-?"

"Has post come from Kyoto yet, Soma-kun, or is this only Tokyo area–"

I looked from the cluster of girls outside the schoolhouse, to Amu and Hoshina's faces and rubbed my throat. "Who's _Kukai-chan_?" I croaked, with watery eyes.

"Post boy," Hoshina said, brusquely. Amu hastily passed me her handkerchief and then got to her feet to try and see over the crowd. Upon catching sight of Kukai-chan, she went faintly pink around the ears.

"... So that's why everyone likes post day so much," she said in the high-pitched voice that she reserved for handsome boys, playing with the ends of her hair. Dabbing my eyes delicately, I accidentally poked myself with something akin to cardboard and stared at the handkerchief, aghast.  

"You aren't expecting any mail, Hoshina-san?" I looked at her with my one non-watering eye.

"Nobody I want to hear from," she said, dismissively. "And I don't want to hear you saying ' _Hoshina-san, Hoshina-san_ ' all day, either, it makes me think you're talking to my mother. You can call me _Utau_ like Amu and Yaya."

It was the first indication she had ever given of the infamous elder Hoshina-san, sole heir to a huge parent corporation. Thankfully, I was saved from saying anything other than a puzzled "alright" by the bright return of Yaya, clutching an envelope with a face like the rising sun. She wasn't the only one to get mail— I saw a girl call, "Hoshina, letter!" and toss a thick manila envelope across the table towards us.

I caught a glimpse of the envelope's crest – a black crescent moon, containing a single solid circle – before Utau casually brushed it off the edge of the table, as if it was nothing but a piece of litter. Cautiously, I tuned back in to what Yaya was saying.

"Yaya's papa is from Yokohama, but Mama is from Taiwan," she explained, breathlessly unfolding the envelope with the frenzy of a puppy with wrapping paper. "Mama and my baby brother are still living there, she said she'd mail me a real photograph, look–"

With glee, she poured out the contents of the envelope. Flourishing a tiny, black-and-white photograph of a blob, she puffed her chest out as if she birthed it herself. "His name is Tsubasa!"

Amu immediately began to coo. Utau gave an approving nod. "You must be so proud, Yuiki. Your mother gave birth to a huge dumpling."

" _Utaaaan!_ "

"I spoke what everyone else was thinking."

At that moment, I decided I would have to derail the Baby Committee to make a very important announcement.

"Amu," I said, "There's something weird in your handkerchief."

It was the same one she had lost nearly a month before. Linen, stitched-on strawberries. The corner, however, was very stiff and not at all as absorbent as I had hoped. A tiny, folded-up piece of paper had been intricately re-sewn into the hem, and I held it up to show her.

"A secret message?!" Yaya whispered in hushed tones. "Remember that man who returned it to you, Amu-chi? Did he put it there?"

"It would have to be," I replied, thoughtfully. "Sewing a message into a stranger's handkerchief is rather creepy, though. Perhaps it's a threat. Perhaps he wrote it in blood."

Strangely, this did not appear to comfort Amu. She stared at the handkerchief in my hands, eyebrows scrunched up. Finally, she murmured something inaudibly.

"Eh?" said Utau. It was the first time she had spoken since this revelation; she looked a bit pale.

"… Nadeshiko's seam ripper," Amu said, louder.

Personally, I wasn't all that invested in whatever love note was stuffed into Amu's handkerchief. I had more important matters to tend to.

"Good morning, Nadeshiko!" I chirped the minute we walked into calligraphy. I took the desk next to "hers", pushing it in soundlessly. "It's a shame you missed breakfast, it was quite good today. There was _meat._ But Nadeshiko-san doesn't eat breakfast, does she?"

Nagihiko beamed, pleased as punch. "I get the same food as the rest of the school, you know. I just eat it while I'm being dressed in my obi, or in my mother's office."

There was something excessively odd about this sentence, but nobody seemed to have noticed but me. Certainly I knew that wherever Nagihiko went,  it involved wearing a pretty kimono… but why would he be sitting in his mother's office so early in the morning? Nobody else seemed to have found this strange.

"But why…?" I began.

Nagihiko made a polite "hmm?" noise at me.

Amu tilted her head. "Oh! Nadeshiko usually has dance practice in the morning. She takes private lessons from Fujisaki-sensei. Don't you remember, Rima?"

 _What?_ No, of _course_ I didn't remember. So _this_ was why he was constantly absent from breakfast and dinner! It made so much sense that I was angry at myself for not guessing sooner. For me, the thought of spending at least four hours a day dancing, plus our class once a week, was almost too much to consider. Then again… wasn't dance the entire reason he was dressing up as a woman? … He certainly must have liked it quite a bit, to do it so often.

I turned, staring at Nagihiko out of the corner of my eye. He shrugged back at me, sheepishly. "I thought you knew."

"More importantly," Yaya burst in, unable to contain herself any more, "Nade-chin, where's your stitch ripper thing? You know, that you use in sewing to tear out bad embroidery?"

Nadeshiko looked mildly surprised, but she patted the chair on the other side of herself. "My sewing kit's in my room. I can go get it for you during our lunch break, if you like?"

"We can't wait that long!" Yaya cried, maddeningly.

Amu said hastily, "Y-Yes, we can! Lunch break is fine– thanks–"

"What do you need it for?" Nagihiko tried to ask, but at the moment the teacher began talking about _tare_ radicals, and he immediately dropped into silence.

I, too, fell into disgruntled silence – for I was curious to see Nagihiko's reaction when we showed him the handkerchief. He had mistrusted the stranger in the village from the start, and I was not looking forward to his smug Nadeshiko-Is-Always-Right smile. I could practically hear his musical, Nadeshikoey tones already: _ah, ah, Amu-chan! How terribly shady! We should go show the headmistress at once. I warned you, you know — a girl with a radiant heart draws the eye of lechers and rakes!_

Annoyed just from the thought, I turned back to what the teacher was saying.

"Today, I'll be showing the first-years brush position and simple stroke order," the calligraphy teacher, Fujimura-sensei, spoke with a sigh as if she was too old for this (she wasn't). "So, for the older students, I'm going to mix it up a bit. As a bit of review, I'll have you all write your own names; you should know how to do that, at least, and it never hurts to know how to sign your name nicely."

Kichigai-sensei was constantly twitching with disapproval at our calligraphy instructor's bobbed hair and loose men's trousers. Our etiquette teacher would often mutter the word _moga_ with disdain over the _swish-swish_ noise of Fujimura-sensei's trousers, but for most of my classmates, it was a label of reverence: " _She's a_ moga _, you know, a modern girl. I hear she smokes cigarettes,_ " Amu once said, voice full of envy mingled with trepidation.

"Hīragi, don't just draw a box like you're a child drawing a house," Fujimura-sensei was saying exasperatedly to an enthusiastic first-year. She had said a similar thing to me during my first class, when I had drawn the first character of my surname like a line-riddled square.

I was about to stand up to get materials when Nagihiko held up his inkstone with a smile. "We can share mine, if you like, Rima-chan."

In private, Nagihiko called me _Rima_. I nixed _Rima-chan_ as far too intimate for a man's mouth to utter when we were alone. However, Nadeshiko had always called me _Rima-chan_ in public (no matter how passive-aggressive in its delivery), which  means I had to continue to tolerate it during  the daytime. My life continued to be a constant cacophony of soprano _Rima-chans._

"Rima _-chaaan…!_ " he called out, whenever he wanted to catch up to me and Yaya in the hallways, hopping close to us like a cheerful songbird with his arms kept effeminately close to his sides.

" _Rima-chan_!" he cried admonishingly, when I grumpily referred to Kichigai-sensei as a "hyena in human clothing".

" _Rima-chan_ ," he said in a very flat voice whenever I kindly remarked that "Nadeshiko, you have such big hands! Like a mannish peasant."

At first, it had felt a little uncomfortable, and associated it with the misery of Nadeshiko's presence. Slowly, I grew to almost enjoy the affectionate nature of the words— although I'd set myself on fire before I admitted this to Nagihiko. 

"I suppose we can share, yes," I replied, picking up my water-dropper. Nagihiko placed his hand over mine with a rather paternal smile. "Let me."

"I know how to make ink," I said, annoyed. My hands withered under his whiter ones like plants under cloud cover.

The bridge of his nose crinkled at me. "I've seen you make ink," he said, the barest hint of laughter in his voice. "You add too much water."

"And you don't add enough," I sallied back. "Your calligraphy is as black as your soul, Nadeshiko-chan."

I was suddenly conscious of the fact that Amu and Yaya were watching us, both looking rather entertained. As if oblivious to my stare, Yaya offered Amu some konpeito out of a bag.

 _Dammit!_ I was supposed to be the one sitting with Yaya, laughing at Amu's antics — but instead, here I was, arguing with Nadeshiko about ink. I clamped my mouth shut, already regretting my decision.

Grinning,  Nagihiko picked up his water dropper in a single motion, tilting his hand just so. I was uncannily reminded of his mother, picking up her own teacup with understated grace; everything really _was_ dance to the Fujisakis. I watched him, eyebrows furrowed.

If "Nadeshiko" was a role – as Naghiko was oft to remind me – then Nadeshiko's walk was choreography, deliberate dance steps in a never-ending recital. The thought was daunting.

Carefully, he dropped water into his inkstone, and I counted them silently— one-two-three-four-five, six, seven. "One more," I said.

"Definitely not." Nagihiko put down his dropper with a soft porcelain _clink_. It was round like a perfectly-shaped stone, made of white glazed ceramic. Bright blue inked flowers trailed their way across the top. He caught me looking at it with undisguised admiration.  

"It is nice, isn't it?" he tapped it fondly, fingernails clinking against the glaze. "It was a gift from my instructor in Peking."

"Why has everyone been to China except me?" I grumbled, impatiently passing Nagihiko the inkstick.

"I haven't been to China, either," Amu supplied helpfully, as Nagihiko gently rubbed the cake of ink against the plain of the inkstone. The black dust dissipated into the water in clouds, staining it a deep gelatinous black. Nagihiko then slid it towards me gently, with a challenging smile. "There you go, Rima-chan."

"I'm forever in your debt," I replied sarcastically, picking up my paintbrush to dip. A pause; I could hardly resist my own curiosity, and Nagihiko knew it.

"… Why did you have an instructor in Peking?" I added, grumpily.

Nadeshiko had the rare talent of being able to tell a story as she wrote, which I found utterly baffling; listening and writing at the same time was difficult enough for me, and as a result, her voice tuned in and out like a faulty radio.

"Well, you know that between the ages of twelve and thirteen, just before you transferred here, I travelled abroad…" Nadeshiko began, in her musical voice. "… But I also travelled for a time when I was much younger, and stayed for a time in China with my father… I must have been no older than seven or eight. I stayed for seven months at a Peking Opera School. It was terrible." He laughed, very mournfully. "They woke us up at five in the morning for wushu training in the courtyard, and we were made to hold stances for hours at a time. And then, whenever someone fell, the entire group was beaten with bamboo canes."

"Wushu?" Amu interjected. "But it's _opera_ –"

Nadeshiko lifted a finger, with a smile; I felt an ethereal monologue coming on. As if on cue, Yaya's eyelids began to droop.

"Martial arts and dancing are sisters in principle. We both train our body to move a certain way. If you ever see a martial arts master demonstrating, look closely at his feet – you'll see he's dancing!" She laughed with a tinkling of bells. I didn't think it was that funny, but to each their own. She continued sweeping his brush across the page with a soft slither, like a snake on grass.

I peeked over at my deskmate's page as she wrote. I had an idea of how her name was written, for _Nadeshiko_ had only one kanji transcription: the first character, _naderu,_ meantstroking or petting (horrifyingly enough). The second, _ko_ , was a common name ending, referring to a child or something otherwise precious. Together, the characters combined to create the fringed dianthus carnation, _yamato nadeshiko_ , a flower said to evoke a child so endearing that it must be caressed. Personally, I thought that getting maternal over a plant was creepy and weird, but I was in the evident minority.

It made me wonder about the name _Nagihiko_. Back in our parent's day, names were not picked lightly for children; a name expressed the hopes and dreams that the parent placed upon their offspring's shoulders, a foreteller of their future. I wasn't entirely sure what possessed me to ask, but I pulled a sheaf of scrap paper towards me, writing with patient brush strokes upon its surface. I then slid it across the desk wordlessly.

 _How do you write Nagihiko?_ it said.

If Nagihiko was surprised at my question, he gave no indication of such; pushing his beautifully-spelled female name to the side, he took up his brush again, poised like a crane about to take flight. First, a bold downward stroke— then a soft outline down from the top, a half-open box. Inside, he painted four more grid-like lines. I was left face-to-face with _nagi_ , the kanji for calm, or a lull in the ocean.

His brush hesitated over the page with a _drip-drip_. Two black dots appeared on the paper. Quickly, the self-conscious feeling of prying far too much into Nagihiko's private family life returned – for a fleeting minute, I wished that I hadn't asked at all.

"You dripped," I told him.

"Yes," he whispered apologetically, dipping his brush into his ink once more. "It's been… some time since I wrote my name."

The second character was _hiko –_ boy, or prince. He finished it with a rather anticlimactic breath, and he placed his brush back on its rest with a smile. "You see? Like this."

I nodded once, and Amu leaned over, tilting her head. "What are you writing to each other over there?"

As if brushing away a troublesome fly, Nagihiko slid the paper towards me and away from Amu's prying eyes, lightly. "I was showing Rima-chan how to write the _hokozukuri_ radical for her family name, she always draws it so stiffly–"

"I know how to write my own name, Nadeshiko-chan just likes telling me what to do–"

"Who can blame me, Rima-chan? You're just so endearingly helpless."

Amu only giggled a bit behind her hand. I had been hoping for a reaction more akin to, "Nadeshiko, you big meanie! Stop picking on poor, vulnerable Rima!", but I suppose that was too much to expect. Much to my own concern, I was beginning to find Nagihiko's ability to lie at the drop of a hat impressive rather than menacing. 

"Perhaps you should demonstrate that for us, since your page is still blank," Nagihiko pointed out, eyes glinting.  He certainly had me there. With Amu and Yaya watching, I could hardly argue. I picked up my brush with a dirty look and began to write, self-conscious over the fact that I had an audience.

My surname, Mashiro, referred to a castle or fortress.2 The characters for my given name were _ri_ , denoting a glassy blue, and _ma_ , referring to the Arabian jasmine flower, something which Nadeshiko seemed to find excessively amusing.

" _Ri-matsu_ ,"1 he tittered in his Nadeshiko voice, admiring my stuffy cursive script with mirth. "Why did your mother name you after a foreign flower?"

"Why did your mother name you for an adorable child, when you are neither?" I shot back, leering.

We stared at each other like that for a while, bristling at each other like alley cats. Finally, Amu cleared her throat. "Y-you two, I-I think class is over. Nadeshiko, you said I could borrow your seam ripp...er?"

"Oh, yes," Nadeshiko replied, straightening up and rolling up her now-dried scroll with a beautiful smile. "Of course you can, but why do you need it? If you're letting down the hem of your skirt, you shouldn't do it while you're _wearing_ it."

"Oh, no, no! Nothing like that," Amu replied, flustered, and Yaya interrupted with a dazzling smile. "No, no, let me tell her, Amu-chi! _Please!_ "

All away across school lawn to the dormitory building, Yaya pontificated on the story like a weaver at the loom. Finally, we decided that it was explanation enough to produce the handkerchief for Nadeshiko's inspection, so that she could see the message jammed into the hem. Much to my surprise, Nadeshiko didn't seem anywhere near as displeased as I had anticipated; in fact, all she did was raise a single eyebrow.

"… And it must be a love note! Or a threat! Right, Nade-nade?"  

"It might very well be something else," was all Nadeshiko said, quite cryptically. I gave her a look, but got no further elaboration. Inside our dormitory room, Nagihiko would not consent to give Amu the seam ripper: instead, he gestured to Amu gently, indicating that she should hand over the handkerchief.

"I'll do a neater job, I think," he said, not unkindly. Stitch hook in hand, he tore only a single stitch — the rest he pulled out with the pointed end, so that he left behind an intact thread that could later be sewn back. Nobody would be any the wiser. Finally, the paper was freed; it was Amu who pulled it out excitedly, fingers trembling with trepidation.

There was an excited rustle as she straightened the piece of paper, and then a too-long pause. Nagihiko's eyes went politely wide. Yaya and I were far too short to read what was on the page, so I tugged at Nagihiko's sleeve. "What does it say?"

His voice was distant in disbelief when he finally spoke. "It's addressed to Hoshina-san."

As a matter of fact, _Utau_ was scrawled onto the front of the folded piece of paper, not _Hoshina-san._ Simply Utau, nothing else– no address, although admittedly an elegant hand. We all exchanged looks of confusion, unsure what to say. The way it stood, it seemed most likely that it was a love note from an illicit paramour-- something that would not blow over well, should one of the teachers catch wind of such a thing.

"That man..." Amu began, face churning with something incomprehensible, but Yaya cut in with a rather sneaky look on her face. "Now, now, Amu-chi, do not be so quick to place the handsome stranger as the culprit. Everybody knows that the rich men of Tokyo use messengers to deliver their letters, like in the Tale of Genji. Obviously our Utan has been carrying on an affair with a rich married man in Tokyo‑‑"

"Yaya!" Amu spluttered, scandalized, as Yaya chuckled darkly into her sleeve. Privately, I thought that Yaya may not be too far off the mark. It was still common for people to take mistresses, and Utau was very mature for her age. Although taking a schoolgirl mistress from a prominent Tokyo business family was scandalous, to say the very least. I took the letter from Amu's grip with a steely eye.

"Rima, you aren't honestly going to‑-" Nagihiko began, flashing me the Nadeshikoey _Rima-chan, you are not behaving like a lady_ stare. Staring back stubbornly, I unfolded the tiny letter, with nothing less than haughty indifference. "I couldn't care less of Utau's sordid affairs, but Amu has a right to read it. It's her handkerchief, after all."

"I don't exactly see her reading it," Nagihiko commented, drily, but I ignored him and smoothed it open. Upon the thin rice paper's surface, there was only written five words:

_Train station, 12th day, 1.00._

"No way..." Yaya said in a low voice, reading over my shoulder. "Utan's gonna elope."

* * *

After lunchtime, we had history. The minute we walked into the classroom, Yaya immediately flung herself at Utau's chest in a cacophony of sniffles.

" _Uta–an,_ you can't leave Yaya! Make a promise, okay? Give me your pinky, hurry up-"

"What on earth are you talking about?" she replied huffily, using her textbook to push Yaya's face off her bosom. She glared up at us as though this was our fault (it wasn't), eyes flashing.

Wordlessly, Amu slid the incriminating note across the table. Still glaring up a storm, she picked it up as if it was a dirty rag. After a cursory glance, she put it down, a no-nonsense look on her face.

"You read this," she said.

"Well," began Amu, flustered. "Well, yes, I sup-"

"It was sewn into your handkerchief."

"Y-yes, but-"

"Kindly describe the man who gave this to you."

Nadeshiko and I exchanged a glance; it was her who spoke when Amu could not, voice calm. "A handsome man with a rather feline face, I would describe it as. He had rather mischievous eyes and walked quite elegantly, but his face was browned from the sun."

"That's a rather useless description," I replied, helpfully.

"Hoshina-san, you cannot."

I knew that Nadeshiko would attempt to stop Utau as much as she could. Girls running away from the school was a stain upon its reputation. Rumours circulated that when a girl ran away, her roommate was beaten in her place. Only the most deplorable of people would have another person suffer for their selfishness.

"I wasn't asking you," Utau said coldly, tucking the note into her collar and opened her textbook. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over. As far as Nadeshiko was concerned, it wasn't, although she pressed her lips together in silence. I had a bad premonition that this would not turn out to be nothing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. _Rima_ ( 璃茉): The character "ma" refers to _Jasminum sambac_ , or the Arabian jasmine, read as either _matsu_ or _ma_. Even more amusingly, Nadeshiko's name coupled with her surname means "purple-blossomed carnation", which I find ridiculous.
>   2. _Mashiro_ ( 真城): I originally assigned the "Ma" in Mashiro a meaning, but I can't make head nor tail of its English meanings (a real castle? As opposed to a fake one?).
> 

> 
> Some notes on names: The first names of all the Shugo Chara characters are actually spelled by PEACH-PIT using the hiragana alphabet, because the target audience is middle-schoolers who haven't necessarily learned all the Chinese characters in school yet. Therefore, the kanji assigned to Rima and Nagihiko's names was picked by me and is completely non-canon. (The exception is Nadeshiko's name, which as Rima states, has only one kanji reading.) I wrote out my 'headcanon' characters out properly for anybody curious below.
> 
> Nadeshiko: 藤咲撫子  
>  Nagihiko: 凪彦  
>  Rima: 真城璃茉 



	5. New Moon

CHAPTER 5

 

新月

New Moon

 

 

 

 

On May twelfth, Amu burst into our room in a tizzy. "Nadeshiko, you _have to help me!_ "

I was sprawled out on my bed reading _The Secret Garden_ , tetchy at being jerked away from my rainy English moors. "Ah, don't mind me," I commented, offhandedly. "I'm just a piece of furniture."

"Utau's going to sneak out and meet that man, and she wants me to help her," Amu wheezed, leaning against the doorframe. "Wh-what do I _do_?"

Nagihiko looked up from where he was writing schmaltzy poetry at the fold-down desk with a startled look. Despite his wide innocent eyes, I was sure that Nagihiko had seen this coming. There was a certain artificiality to the way he tilted his head.

"Why, if Hoshina-san has decided to run away, then I suppose Hoshina-san will run away," he said, in the same reserved-yet-puzzled Nadeshiko voice as before. "That's like wondering what to do when the tide starts coming in."

"Well, yes, but… she's not running away, really," Amu amended hastily. "She just wants to talk to him. It's… complicated."

I was still pretending to read about British girl exploits, although admittedly with furrowed brow. Amu's evasive tone seemed to hint at knowing something the rest of us didn't. Moreover, why hadn't Amu asked _me_?

I may have not been a rakish, risk-taking lawbreaker, but an overprotective extended family had given me a certain disregard for rules set in place to protect me. Nagihiko, on the other hand, was an obedient lapdog who dressed up in women's clothing to please his mother's outdated ideals. I had anticipated this from the moment Amu walked in—Nagihiko was incapable of saying no.  

"If that's the case, what would you have me do?" his voice reluctantly slipped into his Nadeshiko register, from where it had been going dangerously low.

Amu visibly relaxed, scratching her cheek sheepishly. "Well, there's the caretaker that patrols at night, you know…"

"Ah, yes." Nadeshiko closed her eyes, but opened them again suddenly.

"Wait, no. Hold on a moment. A caretaker? We've never hired one—you must be mistaken. Why would we need night guards? We have gated walls."

This was also the first time I had ever heard of a caretaker. I stared at Amu, baffled. She stared back at us, face suddenly panicked. "You mean, that man– who's often out by the woods, looking at the stars– he doesn't work for the school?"

"Why is there such an overabundance of tall, despicable men in this town?" I asked dispassionately. Nagihiko pretended not to hear me.

"That's very worrying." He furrowed his eyebrows, very hesitantly. "... Forgive me for this question, but was he wearing, for instance, burial clothes…?"

"Huh? N-no, just a shirt and trousers," Amu stuttered. "I've talked to him once or twice… W-wait a minute, Nadeshiko! You don't really think it could be a _g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-_ "

"A ghost?" I cut in, helpfully.

"You have to deal with it!" Amu wailed, flapping her arms wildly enough to look like Kichigai-sensei's descendant. "I can't! You're the heir to the school, right? That means you own this land! B-banish it with the land deed!"

"But I've never heard of any deaths on this property," Nadeshiko murmured to herself, preoccupied with more important details. "My father's family has owned this land since the Edo period. We would know if it was haunted."

"Maybe it's your dead great-grand-uncle or something," Amu whispered, nervously.

"No, he died during the Boshin war, in Hiroshima…"

Amu relaxed. Nagihiko finished his sentence, leering. "… Family legend says that his ghost continues to defend the imperial family to this day. One may hear the _clop-clop-clop_ of his horse's hooves across the countryside on warm summer nights–"

Amu jumped, with a cry. " _Nadeshikooo! Don’t joke about that!_ "

This was the Fujisakis we were talking about, so it probably wasn't a joke, but I kept my mouth shut. Amu notoriously hated ghosts. If Nagihiko knew better, he'd simply agree to help distract whatever might be patrolling the grounds just to shut her up.

Indeed, he must have thought the same thing as me, for he nodded reluctantly. "Very well, Amu-chan... for you."

I didn't quite like that.

"What will we do if we're caught?" Amu whispered.

"You aren't friends with the headmistress's daughter for nothing," Nadeshiko replied, in a measured tone. "I have influence. This is why you asked, was it not?"

"Well, a bit, but–" sheepishly, Amu sat down on my bed. I moved my elbow, distastefully. "You're so much better at this strategy stuff than I am, you know? I try my best, but you always help me straighten my thoughts."

Nadeshiko smiled very slowly at this, the timid smile of a carnation opening its petals in direct sunlight. I scowled like a pile of garbage.

"I suppose I can look out for anybody who will catch you two… but I think that's the least of your problems," she said.  "You'll want to be quiet, or you'll wake up the teachers. But as soon as you're outside, there ought to be nothing stopping you but the gate."

"Except the g-ghos—"

 Nadeshiko cut across her, smoothly. "Yes, we'll see about that."

* * *

On the night that Utau was to run away, the sky was the clearest I had seen all spring. The stars glimmered sharply, like slivers of ice on the rapidly darkening blue, something that only made Nagihiko more antsy.

"It's a new moon, but those stars will make us easily-spotted," he murmured softly to himself, struggling to keep composure. "That's why he picked tonight. With no moon, it'll be pitch black. He was probably counting on cloud cover, though…"

"Fascinating," I commented, smoothing my nightgown down and staring at him with an ugly expression. He didn't notice through his fretting, something that annoyed me even more.

"… Well," I announced, crawling under the covers pointedly. "I'm going to bed."

When that garnered no reaction, I reached over to turn the oil lamp next to my bed down.

Nagihiko continued to pace in the dark, hair over his shoulder, fingers hopelessly tangled in it like ivory bars in black silk.

How obnoxious. I decided that if he wanted to dither away through the night, I would let him. I lay down and closed my eyes. Sometime during this, I must have dozed off, although true sleep lingered on the threshold of my mind and refused to stay.

It felt like hours later when I heard the softest of sighs and the sound of leather boots rustling. It was roughly eleven-thirty, by the clock on the wall, and lights-out had been long ago. Opening my eyes, I saw that he was lacing up his boots.

In a daze, I automatically sat up and began putting my feet into my shoes. Nagihiko looked up, eyes glimmering in the semidarkness. "Rima, what are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you."

"Oh, are you?" He laughed, like an amused father whose young daughter has said something particularly clever. "Whatever brought this on?"

"Your own incompetency, mostly." I buckled the straps to my bare feet with a firm noise, and opened the wardrobe door to get my coat.

I took care to make every word of my next sentence very deliberate.

"You– are– a– coward." I buttoned a button for every word. "If you are so terribly afraid, then I will escort you. Will you really fail Amu and Utau-san over something as petty as… what?…"

I turned to squint out the window, very scornfully. "Getting discovered by _ghost caretakers_?"

"To be quite clear, ghost caretakers is not why I am hesitating--"

"We are allies." Very coldly, I adjusted the fur lining around my neck, regarding him haughtily. "Or are we only allies when it suits _you_ , Fujisaki-san?"

"You know it's not like that," he replied very slowly, gritting his teeth. "What if you're caught?"

I tossed my hair, mimicking his Nadeshiko voice. "You're not friends with the headmistress's daughter for nothing, you know. I have _influence_."  

He closed his eyes as if I had deeply wounded him, but an amused smile played at his mouth. Too late, I realized I had said the f-word— _friends_ —even if I had only been parroting Nadeshiko. I prayed that Nagihiko wouldn't notice, but I wasn't entirely sure he hadn't. His smile was especially smug.

"When I choose to help Amu, that's one thing—she's made up her mind to go. It's another thing to let you come with me, take a blow for me, even. At least think this through."

"I have!"

"I don't think you have!" Nagihiko shot back, loudly. I flinched. He seemed to almost regret raising his voice, but his voice was nevertheless stern. "You're _only a girl_ , you know, however much you try to act like an empress!"

The temperature went from reasonably muggy to stone cold in an instant. I was almost a full head shorter than Nagihiko, built like a child where he was nearly a man; he could have easily overpowered me, but he positively quailed under my cold stare.

 "Ah," I whispered, dangerously soft. " _Only a girl?_ "  

"Rima, I was just–"   

"Are you saying that you are not a mere woman, Lady Nadeshiko?"

The bitterness rose in my throat, betraying inadequacy. I had nearly forgotten—ah, _yes_ , Nadeshiko had the woman's pedestal without the woman's burden. Let him do as he pleases, no regards to his own safety, but suddenly _I_ had to stay inside. Things had been going _so well_ with Fujisaki-san, but he had to go and make a royal arse of himself. What more should I have expected?  

Nagihiko seemed to have retained his masculine sixth-sense to understand when he was on thin ice; he leapt to repair the damage. "Don't take that tone, please. You know you're not-"

"You're noisy," I interrupted, extremely bad-tempered. "If you are quite done attempting to insult me, we should be going."

He was no longer in any position to argue. With a hollow sort of air, he opened the door, and stepped back to let me go first.  As quiet as we tried to be, every sound seemed deafeningly loud.

 _Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick-_ went the clock hanging at the end of the hall. _Clack, clack_ went Nadeshiko's boots. _Squeak, squeak_ went the rubber soles of my shoes. Floorboards in the distance creaked. Creepy.

I had the distinct impression that Nagihiko was attempting to leave our row behind our closed dormitory door, even as I brooded in it. No matter where it had gone, we reached the dormitory exit without incident nor word from Fujisaki Nagihiko's mouth.

Exhaling in relief, I wrenched the front door to our dormitory building open with a cold draft of air. There was a sound of rustling blankets from behind the nearest door.

Nagihiko's reproachful eyes glimmered in the darkness. Without thinking, I scoffed back. My voice echoed down the hallway, and resounding back, the soft squeak of door hinges. _Damn it to hell._  The door directly on my left creaked open, much to my horror.

"Senpai?" Two pale faces appeared at the doorway. I turned to face them slowly, silently sizing them up. It was first-year from calligraphy, Hīragi, and her roommate, a soft-looking girl with glasses. I clamped a hand on Nagihiko's sleeve, from where he had been about to make a desperate bolt for it. Sometimes Nagihiko reminded me of a spineless deer.

"Shhh," I admonished, fixing them both with a hawk-like stare to rival Sanjō-sensei's. "Close the door and stop walking on the floor without shoes. Fujisaki-san and I found a snake slithering around the hallway."

Nagihiko's reproachful stare was now burning a hole in my back.

"Wh-whaaaat?! A snake?" Hīragi clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. Her roommate seemed to be rooted to the spot in terror, but Hīragi was doing an odd sort of jig, as if the snake was already under her feet. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

"Stop that this instant, or you'll wake up the teachers," I hissed. "Hīragi, you complete and utter _imbecile_ , if you keep the door open, it'll slither in. Close the door and go back to sleep. Snakes can't get under the door crack."

I was very good with children. I think even Nagihiko was impressed by my blatant lies. 

"W-what if the snake's in our room?" her roommate squeaked, face shining with sweat.

Nagihiko seemed to sense that I was not the most sensitive of creatures—he leapt in with a very gentle, feminine voice.

"That's impossible! We would have seen it go in. It's just a completely harmless grass snake, you know. I don't want you two to get in trouble because Mashiro-san's been frightening you with tales of demons." He laughed in his Nadeshiko voice, and put either hand on both their backs soothingly to turn them around. "Come on, now."

Reluctantly, the first-years allowed themselves to be herded back into their room by Nagihiko. Softly shutting the door behind them, he stared at me disapprovingly, as if I should have nurtured my mother complex more.

"You're _welcome_ ," I replied, affronted.

Finally— _finally_ —we stepped out into the cool night air. I had ran across this familiar lawn only the other day when I had been late for class, but night-time seemed to change the scenery into something foreign. The silence was louder; the breeze was full in my ears. It was too early for crickets, but the grasses rustled on the wind like a mother humming at the loom.

I trotted after Nagihiko like a cocker spaniel amid distinct feeling that it was us, not Utau, who was running away. I thought Nagihiko would be more jittery, nervous; but there was something eerily casual about the way he stepped noiselessly through the grass with languid steps. It was me who kept tip-toeing as if the ground would shatter under me any moment.

"Calm down," Nagihiko said, scanning the distant gate at the foot of the hill with the air of a seasoned war veteran. "We're fine."

"Says the one who was analyzing the moon phases," I snarked back. At that moment, we saw two fuzzy shapes approaching us through the grass.

"You came," Amu whispered in the moonlight, face drawn with terror. "Thank goodn‑- oh, hello, Rima."

"Good evening," I said elegantly, as if we were at an evening ball rather than a human trafficking mission. I saw Utau's eyebrow politely rise in the dim visibility before Amu pushed us further down the slope, muttering something about not standing around and chatting so close to where everyone was sleeping.

"No, no, this is fine," Nagihiko said, still with the demeanour of a lady of war. "Rima and I will stay here and make sure nobody sees you. You two can go on by yourselves to the train station."

"We've already had to shake off a pair of first-years," I interjected, pulling my coat around myself tighter.

"I bet it was Hīragi and Glasses Girl, those busybodies," Utau muttered very audibly, before being frantically hushed by Amu. Although not happy at getting to miss juicy Utau information, I nevertheless regaled myself to the position of Nagihiko's Hunting Dog; it would be the most useful, that's for certain.

"We'll see you when we get back," Amu whispered, face pale and drawn. Before she could turn around, Nagihiko hastily grabbed her arm, wide-eyed.

" _Wait._ How are you going to get over the gate?"

Amu looked like a deer in headlights. Utau, however, wordlessly held up a ring of keys with a steely eye.

For a minute, I thought Nagihiko was going to slap her. When he finally spoke, it was nothing that any of us expected; it was an exhale of admiration. "Why, Hoshina-san. Those are-"  

"–Your mother's keys, yes," Utau finished, boredly.

Cripes! Elegant and refined Hoshina-san, stealing the gate keys from Nagihiko's mum! I was as enthralled as I was horrified. I could do nothing but put a warning hand on Nagihiko's arm, in a very comforting _Fujisaki-don't-have-a-strop-in-the-middle-of-the-school-lawn_ kind of way.

Fujisaki, however, did not look as if he was ready to have a strop. His almost-black eyes reflected the thin moonlight towards distant horizons. He slowly let go of Amu's arm, breaking the unfortunate friend chain.

"If those keys are not back on my mother's desk by five in the morning, she will notice." His gaze flicked to the distant electrical light of the train station. "Hoshina san– if, by chance, you do not return, leave them with Amu. I will ensure they are back in their place"

Utau seemed to have expected as much. I wondered what was going through this crazy girl's mind as she exchanged a nod of understanding with my roommate, to Amu's and my watching awe. I did not expect this. Amu did not expect this. But somehow, Utau had.

"Well, I'll be going," she announced.

"Good luck," I said.

"Luck?" Utau drew herself up with all the composure of the daughter of a financier, eyes glimmering dangerously. "The shrewd man has no need for luck."

I had expected as much. Steadily, Amu and Utau retreated through the dewy grass and purply darkness, towards the distant black spikes of the school gate. Nagihiko watched them go, but I could no longer see his face in the foggy night cover.

It made me want to grab onto his arm tighter. Resisting the urge, I relinquished his arm instead and stuffed it in my rabbit-lined coat pocket. I had forgotten that I was cross with him.

Right. So now our plan was to keep an eye out for adults. But as far as we could see, the surrounding area was silent and free of suspicious teachers. So what was left?

Together, we gazed into the leafy green forest that bordered the building. Even in darkness, the place was friendly and familiar. Bushy trees and shrubby undergrowth scattered through the grass, rays of moonlight shining in to barely illuminate the forest floor. It was hardly the dark and foreboding place of folklore, odd tales of ghosts aside. This was reinforced by Nagihiko picking his way through the undergrowth comfortably, not unlike a grazing deer. He had obviously done this a thousand times before, but I still wondered how far he planned to go into the trees. Did he _seriously_ believe this caretaker-ghost nonsense?

Despite my misgivings, I obediently followed. Quickly, it became apparent that the forest was _not_ my natural habitat. Tree branches pulled at my already-tangled hair. The ground was treacherous, riddled with rocks and tree roots. My visibility was severely limited by the moon's absence; I saw nothing but very dark green amid even darker black. The only way I knew that Nagihiko was continuing to walk in front of me was by the white wisteria crest on the back of his padded haori, bobbing up and down in front of me with every step.

If I hadn't been in a row with him, I would have moaned and complained about it at length. Did he think I was fit to go walking in these shoes? If I had known that we would be tromping through the sodding forest like Girl Guides, I would have at least stolen a pair of his ridiculous boots… !

Nagihiko stopped walking so abruptly that I, looking the other way, walked directly into his back.

"Augh," I said, which didn't count as talking because it was a vocalization of pain-slash-annoyance. "What–"

"Be quiet," Nagihiko whispered, without further explanation. He flung out his arm to stop me; something that shouldn't have flattered me, but did. "You see that?"

I peered into the gloom. The trees rustled. Before us stood a barely-visible forest clearing, thick clusters of black leaves dancing on the deep blue of the sky. Only minimal starlight was able to pierce the canopy above, and it was reflected directly into our eyes by something man-made– something metallic.

Slowly and cautiously, we approached the edge of the clearing, twigs cracking like fireworks under our feet. The closer we got, the more apparent it was that we should _not_ be getting closer; at once, we saw a dark humanoid shape rise to its feet.

We moved fast; I lunged behind the nearest tree. Nagihiko seemed to have the same idea at precisely the same moment—he twirled behind me, black hair whapping me in the face. Staring eye-to-eye, chest-to-chest, we exhaled in terror as one.

"My, my…" A voice rang out beyond our tree.

Nagihiko had not spoken, judging from his immobile jaw and soft, wispy breathing. I did not believe in ghosts, but I did believe in real, dangerous men in forests. _There was somebody else here_.

I tentatively reached for Nagihiko's arm in the darkness, knuckles scratching the tree bark I was pressed up against. I felt a sleeve rustle, and Nagihiko's larger, cooler hand around mine. I squeezed it, leaning back a few mere inches to try and see beyond the tree trunk. Nothing.

It couldn't be helped. We'd have to say something. _But it couldn't be me_. If someone thought there to be two girls in a forest at night, with no teacher aware that they were missing… well, Utau's escape would be the least of our problems.

I tried to exhale instructions as softly as I could. " _Say something._ "

I thanked all the gods I could name when Nagihiko did not question me. He straightened up, my hand still clenched in his clammy fist. I did not thank the gods for this, because it was disgusting.

I heard him inhale, very deliberately, in a deep voice—"Who's there?" he bellowed, voice echoing. A startled scops owl _whook-whooked_. 

_Eep._

It was the lowest pitch I had ever heard come out of Nagihiko's mouth. My stomach jolted, a mix of fear-driven adrenaline and something else. For once, his gender was an enormous asset. I was hardly proud to crouch behind a man's authority, but I also wasn't a fool.

"Why, only me, sir!" a warm male voice replied, bordering on laughing. "There's no need to shout so—you'll give every night-bird in a ten-mile radius quite the shock."

"Stay behind me," Nagihiko said, through gritted teeth, sounding fully prepared to deck someone.

"Don't be a prat." I  nonetheless stayed behind him. If Nagihiko got punched out, I reasoned, I could bolt while he was distracted.

My roommate stepped out from behind the tree in a single reckless motion, squaring his shoulders, still in the same deep, haughty voice. "My family owns the land that you stand on, so I daresay that I may shout as I please." Oh, how I wanted to chuckle. Nagihiko trying to act like a little feudal prince was as impressive as it was precious.

There was a silence, and then another laugh. A lantern was hoisted high, so that I could see a sliver of a young man's unlined face and the glint of an almond-shaped eye. "So then this would be the famous Fujisaki-kun, is it? I _do_ beg your pardon."

I bristled. So did Nagihiko. _Fujisaki-kun,_ he had said.

"How do you…" he began, deep voice turning tremulous.

"You needn't worry," the man replied, setting the lantern down on a rock so that its light was thrown towards us. "I'm an old friend of your mother's. She permits me use of these grounds for astronomy."And then he winked very obviously at Nagihiko. "Shall I not tell her that you're sneaking around with girls after dark?"

"We weren't doing anything questionable," I tried to protest, but changed my mind last-minute. "We wuuuuuuuuhhhhhhh…" I whined, like a wounded piece of machinery, and Nagihiko stepped on my foot.

"How do you know my mother? She's never spoken of you," he said, a little accusatorily.

"Oh? I find this hard to believe, given that we're your brother school."

"Huh?" Nagihiko said, hollowly.

"My name is Amakawa," he said, laughter in his voice. "I'm the chairman of Ōzono Academy."

Ōzono Academy was the all-boy's school a way's to the east, considered a mystery as far as we were concerned. I looked at Nagihiko. Nagihiko looked directly ahead, suddenly the picture of meekness.

"Oh… er… I'm sorry, sir."

"Whatever for, Fujisaki-kun?" Amakawa turned back to the metallic object behind him with the loving caress of a mother. In the lantern light, I could now see clearly that it was a telescope. "I'm not going to punish you, just because you snuck into my school a few times."

"You knew about that?" he said, aghast.

" _You snuck into their school?"_ I hissed, finding my voice. Did even goody-goody Nadeshiko routinely sneak out of this school on a regular basis? I had thought myself a daring rule-breaker, but between Utau currently eloping with a sexy older man and Nagihiko the juvenile delinquent, I felt like quite the model citizen.

"I have _friends_ at Ōzono!" Nagihiko tried to defend himself.

I waved my hand dismissively. "No, that's impossible. You don't have any other friends."

Nagihiko opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out.

Amakawa watched this exchange with an amused twinkle in his eye, like a jolly Father Christmas. He seemed to decide that this was a good opportunity to distract us before I ate Nagihiko alive.

"As for how I know your mother, Fujisaki-kun… well, it's quite the story. I wouldn't dare try to do it justice with my own tongue. You should ask her."

"I think we have the time, Amakawa-sensei," he said, regaining his composure and leaning against the tree behind me. He smiled, almost… _cockily_. "… Since you decided to interrupt our romantic tryst."

 _Bastard!_ I hid my face in my coat's fur lining and stomped on Nagihiko's foot, hard.

From the continually blissful look on Amakawa's face, he interpreted this as a maiden's embarrassed shyness instead of a woman's outrage. He moved the lantern slightly so that he could take a seat, lovingly adjusting his telescope. As he spoke, he continued to peer through it.

"I first met Satsubaki when I worked as an astrologer in the district of Gion. By that time, she was already an accomplished maiko, always bustling to and from dance practice. She was headlining _Dances of the Old Capital_ the year I began working, and _my..._ none of the posters let me forget it."

So Fujisaki-sensei really _had_ been a geisha. Amu and Yaya would be enthralled if they knew. But if Amakawa-sensei could remember Fujisaki's mother as a young woman… how old was he, really? I squinted at him. He couldn't be a day over thirty.

At my squinty look, he added, "Barely anything is done in Kyoto without consulting an almanac or an astrologer. It's important to pick an auspicious dates for important events, is it not? She was one of many clients, but the most memorable, for certain. At first it was because of her fame… later for her sudden marriage… and finally for fate leading us both to run schools within the same prefecture."

He moved his telescope slightly, and turned the lens to focus. "I still remember the day she made an appointment with me, and came into my office to inquire about dates. I tried to ask her what event it was for, but she was quite evasive. Finally, she said, ' _Tsukasa, I'm getting married_ ,' quite firmly. Just like that! With such a serious, earnest look on her face. And it happened, too. When Satsubaki sets her mind to something, woe betide the person who tries to stand in her way. She certainly had to wade through her fair share of beautiful women to get her claws into Fujisaki-san, let me tell you that."

Impressive. Nagihiko looked slightly amused, but mostly terrified. I presumed this was because he had been on the receiving end of the dragon's claws more than once.

I wondered about Nagihiko's father, but did not want to ask, should I look too interested. Amakawa's gaze flicked from me and back again.

"We should have seen it coming, of course. He was her patron for years, but we all thought she enjoyed independence too much. Satsubaki lived for dance. We didn't think in a million years that she would retire to become a housewife, but here we are. And here _you_ are." He leaned back, fixing Nagihiko with quite the smile. "There's no need to fret, you know, Fujisaki-kun. Your parents married for love."

Nagihiko started, and I was at once alerted to the fact that he existed. Had Nagihiko been fretting about such a thing? I never spared much thought as to whether or not my parents had been madly in love or not. Love was the last thing I was spending my days mooning about, unlike Hinamori Aimless over here.

"I see," Nagihiko murmured.

"I believe your girlfriend is a little anxious," Amakawa-sensei commented, nonchalantly. "Perhaps you should both check on Hoshina-san."

Nagihiko had a look on his face like he had been slapped. I was so astonished that I forgot to tell him that I wasn't Nagihiko's girlfriend. _How did he know?_ All this time, we had thought we were stalling him, but—

Without missing a beat, Amakawa-sensei folded up his telescope, smiling at the both of us in a rather grandfatherly manner. "Well, Fujisaki-kun… should you ever get the urge, I'm sure there will always be a school door left unlocked so that you can come in and distract my students. But I daresay we'll be seeing each other again before the winter snows come."

_How did he know?_

"Goodnight, Mashiro-san, Fujisaki-kun."

 _How did he know my name?_ _Bleeding hell_ …!

He left us standing in the exact spot we had started in, sweaty hands clasped together, staring blankly into the woods. I gazed mistrustfully into the darkness where he had vanished.

"Dodgy bloke," I murmured, darkly. Nagihiko relinquished my hand like a guilty schoolboy who had been caught with his hands on an expensive vase he wasn't supposed to be touching.

"I s'pose," he replied, looking at me sideways. "We should see about Hoshina-san."

"Yes," I whispered. _The best idea you've had all night,_ I added, in my head. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, self-consciously.

This time, it was I who led the way out of the forest quite eagerly, picking over roots and rocks and obsessively following the thinning trees. I wanted out of this bloody forest, full of weird psychic exposition astronomers, mean trees and awkward Nagihiko faces.

As we approached the geometric iron gate, I gazed at Nagihiko. Had we not been currently sneaking out, I reflected, I might have enjoyed the stroll. It was rather romantic and calming, if not horribly, _horribly_ dark. Once again, I cursed Nagihiko for ruining what could have been a perfectly good moonlit tromp and forcing me to shun him for badly-timed and ill-advised chauvinism.

As if the gate recognized Nagihiko as its master, it creaked open under his hand. I saw no padlock on the other side of the gate. Evidently, the gate only locked from the inside; it meant that Utau had to leave it unlocked when she escaped, a blessing and a curse. Wordlessly, Nagihiko held the gate open, and I walked through it without thinking twice.

 _You're only a girl, however much you try to act like an empress_ , he had said.

Did he think I didn't know? I was reminded every waking moment of my life that I was a girl. My mother reminded me every time she didn't let me step foot outside my own front door with an escort. Fujisaki-sensei reminded me with every ridiculous speech she made about how vital women were in the lives of men. I was reminded every minute I was _trapped in the forest with that idiot,_ realizing that if we had been two girls, we could have easily been attacked.

So, in a way, he was right. I was frail and petite, more doll than human, the shortest of all my friends. I had pitiful upper-body strength; I was the worst at physical activities in my class, to the point where it became a joke. _Don't hit the ball at Rima-chan_ , Nadeshiko had laughed once, eyes sparkling with mirth. _She's so pretty that even the ball is drawn to her huge head. You'll knock her right out. She doesn't even make an attempt to defend herself._

On the first day back to school, the dirt path from the train station had seemed to stretch on for miles and miles. In the night-time, with only Nagihiko at my side, it seemed to take mere minutes. I felt like we approached the train station from the back far too soon.

What we referred to as a "train station" was, in reality, no more than a tiny wood covering on a raised platform. It ran alongside the polished black railroad tracks, which then vanished into the hills. It was lit by a single electric light, encased by wires, surrounded by fluttering moths. I could see Utau's hair glinting under the flickering light, and presumably Amu at her side.

Nagihiko and I slowly approached the train station from the far side, half-hidden in the undergrowth and wooden backing of the building.

Before we could alert them to our presence, Utau's hair glinted under the lights. She rushed forward towards the train tracks, in a single, breathless gasp—

" _Ikuto!"_

I quickly moved to hide behind the train station, and Nagihiko followed suit.

A tall figure seemed to materialize out of the surrounding blackness. She threw her arms around him without fear, a bright illuminated figure embracing the darkness. They stood there together for a few moments, clasped in each other's arms.

"It's been too long… you're too thin." She took her face out of his chest to clasp his face tenderly in her hands. "Oh, Ikuto—where have you _been_? They think I know where you're hiding, they've been hounding me for months, you– …you shouldn't have come. Where have you been?"

"Here and there," he replied, evasively. Even in the semidarkness, I could tell he was the same man from before. He awkwardly released Utau as though even hugging made him physically uncomfortable. "You know that Stepfather dearest's company thugs can't keep up with me."

There was something excessively odd about this sentence. I exchanged a look with Nagihiko.

"Are you sure?"

"'Course," he replied, evenly. "Nearly caught up to me in Osaka."

Utau made a sharp, angry noise.

"Didn't get me, though. I like being on the run. But not… if it affects you." He murmured this, ineloquently.

"They're still trying to force me to sell my shares back to the company," Utau whispered, frantic. "Because if Father is truly dead, then we own at least fifty percent collectively–"

This time, it was Nagihiko who gave me a look of complete and utter bafflement. I had thought myself watching the beginning of some sweeping romance novel; to see it sink into the stock market was jarring, to say the least. I was slowly beginning to realize that Utau did not, in fact, have a lover, but instead…

"But Father's not dead," Ikuto replied, stiffly.

"It's time to put your idealism to rest, older brother." Utau's voice was like gravel and ice. "If he wasn't dead to begin with, Ichinomiya-san's most certainly ensured he's dead by now. If he finds out where you are, you're next."

"A thousand times better than what he'll do if he gets his hands on you," Ikuto said, full of hate. "Keep ignoring their offers."

"I was already doing it. You don't have to tell me," she said, stubbornly. "I'm still a member of the Board of Directors. If I can resist their demands until I come of age, then perhaps I can convince them—"

"—That maybe he'll have no regrets about disposing of you like an adult," Ikuto said, harshly. "As long as he's married to _her_ , he holds all the power. There's nothing left for us here, Utau."

There was silence. Behind them, Amu's eyes shone with horror; she seemed longing to say something, but wasn't sure what. I was willing to bet that the economics had severely compounded her understanding of the situation. This was clearly a family situation that we could only hope to piece together at best.

A moth nearly flew into my eye, and I tipped backwards into Nagihiko. He grabbed my shoulders to steady me, pulling me further out of view so that our view was obscured completely.

"Why did you come here, Ikuto?" I heard Utau say, quietly. Her voice was resigned.

So was his. "I'm running away."

"Running away?" She made a noise that could have been a scoff, and I heard Amu swallow audibly. "Where will you go?"

"Manchuria. There's fifty thousand Japanese prospecting in Northern China. They won't notice two more."

Utau sounded as if she was putting two-and-two together. "They won't notice… two more?"

Ikuto's shadow moved in the pool of light. "I'm not leaving without you," he said, staunchly. "The last train for Tokyo leaves in fifteen minutes. From there, we could catch a ship in the dockyards. Be out of the country by morning."

"You would abandon our mother?!"

"I would abandon the woman that trapped me in a life that is not my own."

Nagihiko sucked in a breath, sharply, and his fingernails dug into my shoulder.

"My place is here," Utau replied, voice weary. "I have my own plans. If you can wait a few more months…"

"You're asking me to stay?" he said.

"No, I am _telling_ you to stay," she ordered. "I have an education to concern myself with— more than can be said for you."

Something mischievous glinted in Ikuto's eye. "There's no education like the streets."

"Oh, don’t pull that on me," she shot back, disgusted. "When we tried to send you to school, you rode the train all the way back to Tokyo."

"Sure did," Ikuto replied, amused.

This seemed to be all the answer he needed. He shouldered a black, bulky case shaped like a gourd, and turned towards the lights of the town. "I'll bide my time until winter, see what news comes my way. You'd better hope that your plotting falls through by then, little sister."

"Good. Hurry up and clear off," Utau said, huffily.

He sauntered towards the village at a liesurely pace, stopping only once, to look over his shoulder.

"Oh. One more thing." A grin widened on his face. "Make sure to thank your cute friend for dropping all her handkerchiefs at the Tokyo platform like a clumsy idiot. It came in terrible handy for contacting you."

I saw Amu go scarlet in the dim light, audibly spluttering. " _TH-TH-THAT'S-"_

He had already disappeared down the hill.

Utau looked mildly ruffled, as if she had just been forced to scold a disobedient cat. Amu, still extremely overcome, leaned against the wooden platform for support.

"Is-is he _always_ like that?" she spluttered.

"Essentially," Utau replied, although worry subtly wove through her words.

"U-Utau…" Amu straightened up, frowning at the keyring in her grasp. "… What did all that _mean_?"

Utau did not reply.

I presumed this was a good time to reveal myself from the shadows; I quickly walked forward into the light, trying to look as bored and completely disinterested as I possibly could. It wasn't difficult at all, because my face already looked bored and disinterested.

"Are you both done here?" I said, staring around me with complete lack of empathy. "It's freezing. Evidently Utau-san is not running away, because she is still standing here."

"Yes, we're quite done here, I think," Amu said quickly, scuttling closer like a nervous squirrel. "Rima's right, we shouldn't have taken this long. Nadeshiko, can you take the gate keys, please? I feel bad just _holding_ them."

"Of course, give it to me," Nagihiko's white arm stretched around my shoulder to pluck the keys from her sweaty hand. The Nadeshiko mask was once again fixed with a gentle smile upon his face.

That was the last phrase anybody said all the way back to Seiyo. We walked back up the hill in silence, accompanied by nothing but the crunching of dirt under our feet. I believe we were all still preoccupied with our own thoughts. My mind was churning with shareholder law and all I knew of the Hoshina family; Amu was gnawing her lip next to me, cheeks still pink. On my other side, Nagihiko stared hungrily at the stars, as if he could see so much more. Ever since he had eavesdropped with me on Ikuto, he had been acting oddly.

And ahead of us, Hoshina Utau strode briskly, head held high . I was now conscious of how much difference a year in age could make. She was sixteen years old, an adult in Old Japan by many standards. She could marry—she could divorce. She could inherit property, bequeath it. It was overwhelming.  

The gate loomed in front of us, no longer a symbol of fear and prison. It curved towards us like an old friend, as homey as a lantern lit on the porch of one's home.

Perhaps my metaphor was a bit too literal to my own crazed mind, for there was, in fact, a glimmering light in front of the gate. But surely I must be going mad… that was impossible.

A dark mass held the lantern, the shape of what looked like two people. Oh, horrors. Something was terribly wrong.

Hoshina strode forward as confidently as if the light was not there. I hurried in her wake, a remora fish comforted by the presence of the shark. As we approached, the first face became rapidly and horrifyingly clear.

"Hoshina," Sanjō-sensei said curtly, glasses an opaque gold in the light of the lantern. She regarded Utau coolly, as a wrestler regards his bigger but feebler opponent. "Hinamori… Mashiro… _of course_ … Fujisaki."

I couldn't tell if Sanjō's _of course_ was an addendum to my own surname, or a prefix to his. After all that I learned tonight, I was suspecting the latter.

Nagihiko pushed me back forcefully, going to stand next to Utau. "Mother–"

"I'll take those, thank you," a soft voice said from behind Sanjō, pulling the key ring from his unresisting fingers. The terrifyingly beautiful face of Fujisaki-sensei came into view, cold eyes staring out from behind an impregnable Noh mask.


	6. Caged Bird

CHAPTER 6

 

篭の鳥

Caged Bird

 

 

 

 

When I was eleven, I had acted out in class. I forget the exact details of what, precisely, I did—probably something very hilarious—but regardless, Sanjō-sensei finally put her foot down. "Mashiro," she barked, voice making the desks shake, "Up front."

I toddled to the front of the classroom on my short noodle legs.

"Hand, please."

I held it out, haughtily. Sanjō took the rattan cane from where it normally sat undisturbed in the corner of the classroom, and gestured for me to come closer. Then she briskly slapped my open palm with the rod, three times.

The first whack hurt, but bearably. It felt exactly as I had expected. The second whack stung on already-irritated flesh. The third whack burned, making my fingers twitch in vain. Although I had struggled to keep my face impassive, my eyelids couldn't help but flutter with pain. Afterwards, angry red marks lingered on my hand for the next hour.

This was worse.

The hits were a steady rhythm against my back, like rain on a roof, a mallet on a drum-skin, biting wood on the flesh of a peach. As my flesh smarted and burned, I began to play a game with myself. If I focused enough on the pain wracking my body—localized and compartmentalized it to a sole area—the sensation grew distant and easily dealt with. I treated the constant thuds of pain on my back as if it was an earthquake occurring far away from my urban center. I was still getting beaten; I could still feel it, but it was no longer registering clearly in my mind. It was, perhaps, the only thing keeping me calm. I tried to keep myself in this state, fists clenched, face frozen.

* * *

An hour prior, I had found myself seiza-ing in Fujisaki's sodding office. The other side of the desk was lacking its usual reptilian inhabitant, although I was not alone; Amu's leg pressed against mine, trembling profusely. She had never gotten in trouble before, never mind beaten. She must have been terrified.

Well, this was exactly what we deserved, if I was being fair to myself. We had _snuck out_ , broken school rules. To all who didn't know the truth, it must have looked uncannily as if we were running away to catch a train, or something else excessively stupid.

All the same, I had only been caned once—and that was only three times, on the hand. By Fujisaki-sensei's foreboding voice, this was not going to be a metaphorical slap on the wrist.

We had been instructed by a livid Sanjō-sensei _not to talk_. She then dragged Utau away by the ear, face full of bitter disappointment. It was common knowledge within the school that Sanjō-sensei was fond of Hoshina-san, regarding her as a protégé of sorts. Perhaps that's why it sounded as if Utau was getting beaten especially long and hard.  The cracking of the cane was audible over the muffled, scratchy sounds of a female singer crooning a ballad from the gramophone. I wondered if this was how military prisoners felt: trapped in the semidarkness, nothing but the sound of their shrieking comrades for company, forced to listen to the vocal equivalent of the electric saw. What kind of eccentric woman was Fujisaki-sensei, to listen to enka music at one in the morning? Perhaps she had purposefully turned it on for us.

I allowed my eyes to wander – anything to take my mind off Utau's muffled scoffs of pain. Fujisaki-sensei's desk was strewn with thin sheaves of rice paper and a now-cold cup of tea, a brush resting on its wooden stand as if placed there hurriedly. Had she been pulled away to deal with us while she was still writing letters?

Well, I thought grimly, it wouldn't be the last letter she wrote. We had been informed by the dragon herself that our parents were being notified. What exactly the letters would contain was anybody's guess. None of us breathed a word about Ikuto—neither teacher had bothered to ask, focused more on the crime than the motive. It left me to conclude that very soon, my mother would be getting a letter going something along the lines of this:

_Dear the miss unmarried Mashiro-sama,_

_Late spring brings warm days and cold nights. Like the spring morning dew, it is with a heavy and cold heart that I must bring you bad news so close to summertime._

_Your beloved only daughter was caught returning to school after a joyous night wandering the countryside aimlessly, in the company of friends who shall remain nameless for their own personal safety. They were not, however, running away in any capacity. I can only presume that they were drinking and revelling in the company of construction workers, for I have little grasp of motivations that are not my own._

_I pray to Ukemochi-no-kami that you shall take care of this matter. A woman's virtuousness begins at the mother's breast, or something. I apologize again for this tragic news._

_Fujisaki Satsuhakibakigakikko_

_(some over elaborate flower stamp, probably.)_

Wood clacked, and the screen slid open over by Fujisaki-sensei's desk. Utau was shoved through it, eyes dark and rebellious. Her blouse was clutched to her chest, wearing nothing but her brassiere, bangs sticking to her forehead.

"This is my punishment for letting you escape, too, you know," Sanjō gasped for breath. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and her glasses were sliding off her nose. "To stay up and beat you all within an inch of your lives instead of returning to my warm bed."

I had a thousand snide comments to make about this, all left unspoken. Instead, I said the first thing that came to mind. "Where's Nadeshiko?"

Nagihiko had vanished on the way to Fujisaki-sensei's office, wordlessly beckoned away from us and down a different corridor in his mother's wake. Utau or Amu might have been foolish enough to think Nadeshiko exempt from punishment: I knew better.

"Fujisaki-san answers only to the headmistress," Sanjō said grimly. "I can assure you that her punishment is likely worse than all three of yours combined."

Well, that was reassuring.

"Alright, Mashiro." Having caught her breath, Sanjō straightened up, fixing me with a stare. "You'll be next. Hoshina, kindly put your blouse back on and return to your room."

Utau turned away from us to slide the screen door open. As she did, we could all see her bare back was dotted all over with ugly purple bruises. There were red oozes of blood on her shoulder blades, where repetitive pressure had broken the skin.

I heard Amu gasp softly; I stiffened. Would my back also bleed and bruise when it was hit? Sanjō-sensei already looked exhausted; surely she wouldn't be able to beat me as hard as she had beaten Utau. I was suddenly fiercely grateful that Amu was going last, and would thus bear the weakest blows.

"Sometime this week, if you please, Mashiro," Sanjō added, curtly.

I longed to reassure Amu that somehow, it would be fine, but I could not bring myself to speak up in Fujisaki-sensei's office. Although the headmistress was absent in body, I felt her eyes all over the walls, watching us like little rustling insects. So instead, I followed Sanjō outside stoically, stomach in knots.

The screen in the back corner of Fujisaki-sensei's office opened out to a beautiful inner courtyard, walled in on all sides by the low wooden sides of the school hallways. The cool air hit my face in a rush, and I heard the muffled _clunk_ of a bamboo spout, knocking against its stand as it filled with water. There was nothing but stone under my feet. By day, it must have been a beautiful garden of some kind. By night, it looked like the kind of creepy place where someone would hang himself.

Sanjō gestured to the ground, sounding more weary than anything. I dropped into the now-familiar seiza position onto the flagstones, staring at the lit stone lantern directly ahead of me. I was determined not to cry out as Utau had, in case Fujisaki-sensei or—god forbid, Nagihiko— was listening from somewhere else.

In Sanjo-sensei's pale hand, she clutched the infamous rod that normally sat in the corner her classroom. To the superficial eye, the cane may have looked like bamboo, but most people knew it to be rattan. Rattan, like bamboo, had a sort of yellowish blocky look to it. Unlike bamboo, rattan is solid all the way through. This cane in question was only a single stalk, for which we ought to have been grateful; at the judicial level, it was several bound together, and it drew blood.

So focused was I on the fascinating history of the Calameae genus that the first hit came unexpectedly. I locked in a shocked squeal. Would bracing my knees and stiffening my back would do anything against the next one, or was it better to be pliant, yielding? I tensed up against the stone, elbows locked into place.

Two. My knees buckled, and I grimaced. It made no difference.

The first hit had shocked me with how much it hurt, but now they were losing momentum. It seemed as if I was right—she had tired herself out on Utau, who Sanjō knew was the primary culprit and deserved the strongest beating. Next in order of culpability was I, for having a criminal record. Last would be Amu, who, as always, was so sweet and blameless.

I closed my eyes, waiting for another searing hit.

It did not come. Instead, I heard the distinct sound of delicate, tiny butterfly steps on stone.  My heart thudded against my ribcage like a terrified bird. The only one who walked with such measured steps was Fujisaki-sensei. I dared not turn around to confirm my suspicions.

"Yukari-san, you may return inside and send Hinamori-san back to her room," her voice lilted on the wind like flower petals. "I will take it from here."

Sanjō was a practical woman, and knew when not to argue. I heard her sound of assent and the fading footsteps. The door slid shut, and a little bit of tension drained from my aching shoulders. Poor Amu would have no idea what on earth was happening, being sent back without me, but she would do so without question. I felt no bitterness at her exclusion from this twisted punishment.

Curiosity finally getting the better of me, I craned my neck over my shoulder. Nadeshiko stood next to her mother in disgrace, face the stark colour of fallen snow. She turned to look at me, but it was Nagihiko who met my eyes through the holes of the mask, pleading. _You're in trouble,_ his face seemed to say with a grimace, _and I'm in trouble._

His worry had the adverse effect of calming me and steeling my momentary panic. I hardened my gaze, and subtly nodded. _So be it_ , I told him silently, looking haughty and unshakable.  

What Fujisaki-sensei said next severely impacted by ability to look haughty and unshakable.

"Pick up the cane, Nagihiko."

 _Clunk, clunk_.

The bamboo spout behind us filled with water, emptied, and sprung back up again.

He was going to beat me.

I did not want to admit that my own pride had caused me to step directly into this trap. _I'm coming with you_ , I had whined, fancying myself intelligent—but had it not been from a good place? The fool would have been lost without me. It was not my fault that we were both being punished, played off against each other like chess pieces. It was the fault of our headmistress.

Nagihiko did not move to pick up the cane. We both stared at her instead, like stubborn horses.

Nagihiko's mother then seemed to sense that she'd have more luck appealing to me; she turned in my direction, tucking a wisp of her still-black hair behind a marble ear in a very stern voice. "Mashiro-san, I thought we had an understanding. The understanding was that upon being let into a confidential secret, you would not lead my son into more risk and rule-breaking. I thought you were the prudent one… a pity."

 _My mother is very skilled at commissioning a hut and then demanding a castle,_ Nagihiko had said, once, the picture of grace. Now he was every bit ragged chivalry, voice rough and masculine. "Mother, please, it was m-

His sentence broke halfway. In a swift and graceful motion, Fujisaki-sensei slapped Nagihiko hard across the jaw. Her kimono sleeve drifted in its wake like a dream.

"Hold your tongue." Her voice was a cold blade left out in the winter air. "You are both equally accountable for your own actions, and will be punished accordingly. _Pick up the cane, Nagihiko._ I will not ask again."

Although the entire side of his face was slapped red, he straightened up, long hair settling back into place as if it was never ruffled. He picked up the cane.

"I hope you know that this hurts me more than it hurts you," Fujisaki-sensei said, once again serene. "Hit until I tell you to stop."

 _I think this is going to hurt me more than either of you,_ I wanted to say snidely. But when I looked up at Nagihiko, suddenly I wasn't so sure. His wild eyes reflected the light like a wolf's. His face, so unusually readable, contained nothing but paralyzed horror and disbelief. 

I mentally kicked myself for being so self-absorbed, remembering all at once that Nadeshiko did not have many friends. Was it because Fujisaki-sensei forced her to beat them all? I stared at Fujisaki, locking my jaw. I would not give her the satisfaction of burning my shaky bridge with Nagihiko over something as petty as getting whipped to death.

"Go ahead," I said.

There were a million apologies in his eyes when he brought the cane down on my shoulder, a soft sound. I could have cried; he went for an area left untouched, and the force was negligible to me, feathery touches compared to Sanjō's. I felt a sick, swooping rush of affection.

"This is not a child's game, Nagihiko. Hit harder," Fujisaki-sensei said, through gritted teeth.

I felt a lurch of foreboding. Of _course_ she wouldn't allow him to go easy on me; this was mostly a punishment for him, after all. I dared not turn around for fear of repercussion, but I did subtly push my shoulders back. This was a clear situation in which nothing could be helped—the best he could do was shred me up and then pray I was intact at the end. And come up with a metaphor that wasn't so poor.

All this I knew. Yet, Nagihiko's second hit connected with shocking strength. I forgot how strong he actually was.

"Eurgh!" I squeaked before I could stop myself, more from surprise than anything. I heard the cane clatter to the ground. " _Mother, please_!" Nagihiko pleaded loudly.

"Oh, for _Heaven's sakes_ , Nagihiko." Fujisaki-sensei replied, bored. "You've done worse before. The faster you do it, the faster it will be over."

She was right. I gave Nagihiko a grim look over my shoulder, my mother's trademark Rima-you'd-better-do-as-I-say-or-I-will-make-a-nasty-sour-face stare. Who's the woman now, Nagihiko? I wanted to snarl, throat full of bitterness. _Too weak to strike a schoolgirl?_

My feeble thoughts sounded horrifying, even to the cavernous echo of my own head. If anything, it only made him more maddeningly like a gentleman; but this was hardly the place to defer to the fairer sex.

I heard the rattan cane whistle defiantly through the air, and the rush of the wind parting for Nagihiko's hands—I glowered to myself, steeling myself for the invariably painful hit that would follow.

When it hit, I was rather impressed with myself; I had anticipated worse, so what connected barely seem to hurt at all. He hit in an interesting manner; different from Sanjō's, something I couldn't put my finger on.  I stayed absolutely still and channelled a rock for three more beats.

Three. Four. Five. The hits hurt—a little more than the first one, but not by much. Yet, I could feel the rattan canes whistling through the air as if at extremely high speeds.

I realized, all at once, that clever Nagihiko was taking advantage of having his back to his mother. He brought down the cane through the air at high speed, making it look as if he was going to connect with my back with all the momentum behind him, before greatly slowing down just before it hit my skin. Executing such a thing was not for the weak of… arms. I felt some grudging admiration.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. My determination only wavered when I felt something hot and sticky worm its way down my back, a sickly saccharine trail. The rattan cane came down for the twenty billionth time, squelching on wet fabric, and I cringed hard enough to send a shudder through my body.

The smell of iron slunk dizzyingly through the air. Immediately, the cane dropped. The sight of blood was evidently enough to make Nagihiko lose his nerve. "Rima, you're _bleeding_ ," he whispered in horror.

The blissful reprieve of Fujisaki-sensei's voice sang on the wind. "Very well, then, Mashiro-san. You may go."

I didn't need to be told twice, but my body had other ideas. My back felt as if it had been rent to shreds. I was quite sure the wounds on my back would split into gashes, like runs in a nylon stocking, if I so much as moved a shoulder. Nevertheless, legs knocking together, I rose to my feet.

Nagihiko dove forward to grab my elbow, eyes brimming with worry. Fujisaki-sensei raised a gentle hand, watching us like a lady might regard a mated pair of Mandarin ducks with amusement. "That's quite enough, Nagihiko. If you don't mind, I'd like you to stay behind so that we may have a little chat."

I was ever-conscious of how Fujisaki-sensei talked to her son like he was an employee in a company firm. My resentment for her quadrupled. First she makes Nagihiko beat me within an inch of my life, and now I was to be deprived of his presence for God knows how much longer? All I wanted to do was get to the safety of my dormitory room, where I could rinse the blood off my back, sit down on my bed and perhaps have a good long talk with Nagihiko about what both of witnessed with Utau. Instead, I found myself walking back alone, back stinging, through the dark wooden hallways.

* * *

I leaned over the sink in my dormitory to inspect the damage, struggling to undo my nightgown buttons from the back. My shoulder joints were impossibly stiff, and my arms refused to bend backwards; I hopped up and down on the spot, trying to gently wrench a space open. This was how Nagihiko found me when he walked in some time later, bouncing around in a circle like a possessed jack-in-the-box.

"That was fast," I said shortly.

"Yes, I was not kept long," he said, tilting his head demurely. "Do you…?"

 _Do I what?_ I stopped my hopping to stare over my shoulder at him. He was carrying a bowl of steaming water in his thin hands, and looked like a wreck.

"You look like a wreck," I said, although it was lacking its normal satisfaction.

"So do you." Nagihiko pointed at me with his chin, grimacing.

I looked up at the round mirror over the sink, and almost recoiled. My eyelids were red-rimmed, as if I'd been crying, and the bruises under my eyes were enormous and practically the colour of Nadeshiko's hair. I took a stumbling step back, almost hitting the bathroom door.

"Careful, _careful_!" said Nagihiko quickly, narrowly missing spilling water everywhere. "Sit down. I can undo do that for you."

Undo _what?_ I looked from my half-undone nightgown buttons to Nagihiko's face in a very slow, outraged motion.

He made a face at me, as if being concerned for my own modesty was irreparably childish. "Oh, _come now_ , Rima, do you honestly believe I'm going to eye you up like a construction worker?"

"Yes," I said, not even bothering to think about it. "Who wouldn't? I'm stunning."

"Let's not forget modest. If I wanted to peek like a low-class thief, I would have done it months ago." He made a wry face at me, overridden with remorse. "The least I can do is get the blood off you, you know. You'll want that cleaned, and—well, after all, it was my… faul…"

I knew this was coming; God forbid we just sweep it under the carpet.

"Only an idiot would try to blame himself," I interrupted, disapprovingly. "Sanjō-sensei hits harder than you do when she's _sleep-deprived_."

Nagihiko did not smile. "At least let me wash it off."

"If you think I'll let a boy undress me, your head must be emptier than I thought." I crossed my arms, stubbornly. "Nadeshiko."

"Eh?" he responded in a puzzled lilt. Even so, his voice ended on a high pitch by reflex.

"Nadeshiko-san," I elaborated firmly. "I want Nadeshiko to do it."

He stared at me for a moment as if I had said something… well, I don't quite know what. I wondered what I was playing at by asking such a thing. Nadeshiko or not, he was still a man, and a man was still decidedly not supposed to be looking at a woman's bare back. Then again, he was not supposed to be _rooming_ with one, either…

Nagihiko slowly sat down on his bed, patting the spot beside him with the shyness of a newlywed wife.

"Very well, then," she said, gently, flowers blooming in her words. "Sit down, Rima-chan, before I _murder you_."

Slightly more comforted, I moved between the two beds to sat down on the other side of Nagihiko's mattress. Nadeshiko, pleased at getting her spaniel to sit, undid the buttons with fast and clever fingers. "You've got a bloodstains on this, I'm sorry," she murmured. "I really tried not to…"

"Well, I was _trying_ to take it off to rinse the blood out," I replied huffily. "No need to fuss. It'll come out fine with cold water and salt."

Nadeshiko combed hair away from my neck, fingernails grazing skin as she pulled my mass of curls over a shoulder. "… Is that so?"

I had forgotten, so quickly, that she wasn't a girl.

"You can take my word for it. Women wash blood out of their clothes quite a bit, you know," I pointed out with the subtlety of a blunt knife.

"Ah. I forgot." Nadeshiko left it there. As she peeled my nightgown open, I shuddered a little.

"Sorry, does it hurt?" she whispered, right in my ear. Her breath tickled my cheek and the hairs at the back of my neck stood straight up. _Christ!_ _Stop that!_

"Not much," I lied. I would have happily dived headfirst into Edo Bay than confess it wasn't a shudder of pain.  

"Well, it shouldn't," she said, trying to comfort me. "There's only two, three shallow cuts here. It's not as bad as it must feel– the pain is from the bruising."

"You sound like you know a lot about getting beaten with a stick."

I could practically feel Nadeshiko's face darken, and I was heartily sorry I mentioned it. She put the warm cloth on my back, and tension immediately began to drain from my muscles.

"Old dancing families like ours can be a little bit old-fashioned." That was an understatement. "Your mother hasn't ever hit you, Rima-chan?"

"No," I said, although I wondered if this answer qualified—my mother was often absent, so discipline was less non-corporal and more non-existent. I craned my head over my shoulder, only to make a pained face as I felt my skin stretch across a cut. Nadeshiko whapped the side of my cheek with the back of her wet hand, sternly. "Don't move."

"I wasn't–"

"You were!" She scolded me like a hen, unscrewing a glass jar I hadn't seen her carrying.

I eyed it warily, distracted by the shiny object. "What is that?"

"Hit wine."

I remembered the taste of sake from the cherry blossom viewing, and my wariness amplified. "I don't drink alcohol."

"Ah, excuse me. Not for drinking. It's _diē d_ _ǎ_ _jiǔ_." Her voice stumbled over Chinese tones, and I snorted.

"You mustn't snort." She tipped some of the jar's contents into her hand, sternly. "It's an age-old family secret, given to us from the white hands of Toyotama-hime herself, who came to us in the form of a turtle and told the founder of our clan, Fujiwara-no-Saki, that it would cure any–"

"Do you expect me to believe this, or do you just like telling lies?" I demanded, wincing at the way it burned on my skin. She laughed, a low and sultry noise unfamiliar to the tinkling of bells I was so used to hearing. "Both, of course. Why can't you be gullible and believe it?"

"Because I've got a brain." Her hands spread out over my back, and I bristled like a cat being petted the wrong way. "What are you _doing_?"

"What d'you think, that I'm trying to grope you through your _spine?_ " That was Nagihiko. I glowered, and Nadeshiko smiled winningly back at me. "It's supposed to be rubbed in."

"You spend most of your life _rubbing it in_ ," I grumbled audibly. If Nadeshiko heard, she gave no indication as such; she was too intent on digging her pointy fingers into my skin. Gradually, the sensation faded from painful to almost pleasurable; I wondered if Nadeshiko knew this, but decided quickly I wasn't going to breathe a word.  

"Rima-chan?"

"Yes?" I choked, through a haze of being touched by a pretty girl.

"I was wondering… did you understand what all that was about earlier? With Hoshina-san, I mean."

"To what are you specifically referring?" I asked drolly, pushing my shoulders against Nadeshiko's hands and arching back like a pleased cat.

"There was some talk of companies… I'm afraid it was quite lost on me. Did you understand?" Nadeshiko stifled a pretty little yawn behind her sleeve.

"Of course I _diiid_ ," I yawned back, tears in my eyes. I turned around to look out the window, where it was still pitch black outside. "… It's quite late. Are you not tired?"

I could not believe that it was still the same day; that in less than five hours, I had snuck out, fought and forgotten a feud, met a dodgy geezer in a forest, enabled a not-really-escape, been corporal punished, and—what—now _this_?

"I don't believe I could sleep if I tried." Nadeshiko's voice was weary. "The worst you could do was bore me to slumber."

"Or myself, maybe," I remarked dryly. I got to my feet, holding the back of my bloodied nightgown up. "Let me get out of this, at least."

"Of course." She sat down on the bed and crossed her legs under her, smiling expectantly at me.

About to pull an arm out of its sleeve, I stared suspiciously. "Do you _mind?_ "

She shook her head, brightly. "Not at all!"

Once again, I had forgotten that she was a boy. With a soft _hmph_ , I flounced behind the painted screen set up in the corner. _What a lech!_

As I pulled on another nightgown almost identical in construction to the previous one, I heard Nadeshiko ask, "Goodness gracious, how many silk nightgowns do you _have?_ "

I stuck my head out from behind the screen, looking down at myself. The only subtle difference was that this one was made of more yellowy silk, and had a modern V-neck instead of a buttoned collar. "I brought four nightgowns with me, if that's what you're asking."

"So, _all_ of them?" Nadeshiko seemed oblivious to the concept of nosiness. "I noticed that all your blouses are silk, too."

"Well, yes," I said, matter-of-factly. I gathered the nightgown in my hands and padded into the washroom to rinse the bloodstain, taking a few minutes to realize that she wanted a more thorough answer. Leaving the stain to soak, I flopped onto my bed, facing Nadeshiko. "My family works in silk manufacturing, so I daresay we tend to often have yards of it in abundant supply."

"Ah. So Rima-chan was born into a business family."

"That is correct. So was Hoshina-san." It suddenly occurred to me that Tokyo lived in its own little business-savvy bubble, away from the relaxed attitude of rural areas. Utau, Amu and I were all from the city, although Amu herself lived in middle-class oblivion to the comings and goings of the business world. "… Do you really not know any of this?" I added, bewilderedly.

"Of course not," Nadeshiko laughed as though it was silly for me to even ask. "I was born in Hiroshima. I can count the amount of times I've been into Tokyo on one hand. Father hates the Kantō region."

" _Hates it?_ For what reason?" I demanded, a bit offended. I forgot my earlier curiosity at the elusive Fujisaki patriarch and thought only of my love for Ginza—the crunching of car wheels on cobblestones, the glint of white parasols, and the imposing cloud-grey pillared buildings that looked all the world like something from a European fairy tale.

"Too many philistines. Tokyoites don't appreciate culture, he says, only gag plays." Touché. Nagihiko smiled at me knowingly. "You two would like each other, I think."

"It does not sound like it," I murmured, shifting uncomfortably. Normally I'd pull my knees to my chest, but with my back this was out of the question. "So… the Hoshinas."

"Yes. I'm listening."

"This is all gossip, mind you. You didn't hear it from me."

"Not a word."

"Right," I began. I was laconic by nature; long explanations were Nadeshiko's element, not mine. Yet, she smiled kindly at me in a way that helped me form the words to elucidate. "The Hoshina family runs one of the biggest financial cliques in Japan, one of the _zaibatsu_. A financial clique is… not unlike a school clique, I suppose."

Nagihiko smiled a little bit at this, amused. "I take it comes with all the bickering and games of schoolgirls?"

 "You would be correct." I nodded. This was a quick and easy metaphor to assist me. "A clique is a sort of business conglomerate. A _zaibatsu_ , first and foremost, will almost always own a bank. You can think of the bank as the second-in-command, the arm through which the _zaibatsu_ does its dealings. With that money, the financial clique can then begin to invest in different types of industry."

"Is your family's business owned by a _zaibatsu_?" Nagihiko asked, shrewdly.

I nodded in assent. "Of sorts, yes. Our investor is not the Hoshina family, however." Thank goodness, because that would make our friendship excessively awkward.

Nagihiko looked as if he wanted to investigate further into this, something I wanted to dissuade. We might have been friends, but we were still not friendly enough for me to explain the very un-nationalistic circumstances under which my family operated. I hastily continued.

"That's what a financial clique does with their money. It invests, to get more money." I was trying to explain this as simply as I can, using child's vocabulary. With furrowed brow, I mimed a pie slice. "They buy a little chunk of a company, which is called a share. When a financial clique buys a share, they own a little bit of the company… which means they get a little bit of the money it makes…"

"I’m following." He smiled, encouragingly. Quite remarkably, he did not look remotely sleepy.

"But owning a share means many other things. If you buy enough stock— that's just the plural of share, don't give me that face—you own the company, in a way. You've put so much money into the business that you can dictate what they do, and the company has to consult you for everything. When you get to this point, you are considered a shareholder, and placed on a Board of Directors. That way, all the people who own loads of stock can all get together and argue about what they want the business to do."

"So you're saying that Hoshina-san owns… _stock_? In her own parent's company? How does that work?"

"I was getting there." I grimaced. "Financial cliques are family-owned, and passed down father to son."

There was a flicker of dawning comprehension.

"From here, it's stuff and speculation, but… I think it's likely that children in _zaibatsu_ families are given shares as children. That way, they can start accumulating money from a very young age, and can survive off the fortune for the rest of their life. But it also means that they're technically on the Board of Directors, because they own a big part of the company. I think this is likely the case with Utau and Ikuto-san."

I could practically hear the whirring of Nagihiko's brain working a mile a minute. "She spoke of people trying to get her to _sell her shares back to the company_ , though. Why would someone want her to do that?"

"Well." I gave Nagihiko a look to indicate that this was a whole other explanation. He stared back. "The Hoshina family was a… special case. They didn't have any boys to inherit the company; only a girl, Hoshina Souko-san. They decided the best way to solve this problem was to marry her off to the son of another wealthy financier. That way, their businesses could combine, and the corporation could get a man in the CEO's chair who knew what he was doing."

"I take it that plan did not go through?"

"No, it did not." I smiled, ruefully. "She eloped."

"Aha!" Nadeshiko clapped her hands. "I knew we'd get an elopement, one way or another!"

"A musician," I ploughed on, "A terribly poor one. You can imagine that he wasn't suited for the business world of Tokyo."

"Indeed."

"So, when her husband went missing, many supposed it was because she forced him into a world he didn't quite belong in. That he cracked under the pressure, or was having an affair, that sort of thing."

"What do you think?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," I said, dismissively.

"It matters to me," said Nagihiko patiently.

"I have no opinion on the issue," I said, firmly. "This was before we were born. But I can tell you what my mother thinks."

"Very well," Nagihiko's head lolled onto his shoulder, sleepily. "Tell me what Rima's mother thinks."

"She thinks he was killed. Assassinated, his body dumped in quicksand."

"Why, your mother sounds nearly as charming as you, Miss Mashiro."

"Oh, sod off," I replied huffily. "It's grim, to be sure, but it's likely considering what happened next—only a few months after his disappearance, Souko-san was married off again, this time to some old codger."

"Rima?"

"Yes?" I said, irritated on being interrupted halfway through my tirade for a second time.

Nagihiko stared across the room at me, eyes bright and serious. "… What on _earth_ is an old codger?"

I opened and shut my mouth like an electrocuted carp, and paused. After a struggle to get words out, we simultaneously both burst out laughing.

"Ow! Ow!" I gasped. "Back! Stop it!"

"I'm not the one dropping silly words all over the place like a girl dropping handkerchiefs!" Nadeshiko shrieked, hurling a pillow at me. "Speak _Japanese!_ "

"Maybe if you studied English more you'd _understand_ me, Mr What-Colour-Is-Your-Bicycle!"

"It was a _legitimate question_!" she wheezed, burying her face in her sleeve. "Give me my pillow back!"

"Why, Miss Fujisaki, I believe I'll be keeping it!" I retorted.

At that moment, a muffled thud reverberated through the wall, almost like the sound of a broom handle whacking against it. Then, a voice through the thick layers of plaster: " _Mashiro, if you don't stop shrieking, I'll cut off all your hair in your sleep!_ "

I crammed my fist in my mouth, snorting.

Nadeshiko giggled through her hands, taking several deep breaths. "Watarai Misaki-san is as energetic as ever, even when half-asleep, it seems. Oh, _dear_."

We both took a minute to stop giggling. Nadeshiko sat up on an elbow, smiling at me; very slowly and cautiously, I smiled back. It was excessively awkward, to sit there and exchange smiles with a reptile. 

Then, out of nowhere, Nagihiko brushed his fringe out of his eyes, seriously. "I'm sorry." 

I started. This was out of nowhere. I had almost forgotten the events of prior until he apologized, at which point I lidded my eyes a little haughtily. "Oh?" 

"I was being a chauvinist gourd," Nagihiko leaned forward a little, earnestly. "You aren't only a girl. It was a foolish thing to say."

I looked up interestedly. "Did you just call yourself a gourd?"

"Rima, I'm trying to apologize," he added, weakly. "I suppose no matter how much I'm a girl by day, I can't help but unconsciously believe horrible things..." 

"It's quite alright, you know." Quite flustered at this point, I tried to maintain a degree of light-heartedness. I didn't want to delve into this void. "You're right, I'm not a girl. I'm a goddess."

"Why do I even put up with you?" he asked wearily, rolling over with a smile. 

"Because I'm a goddess."

"Goddesses don't dance like limp soybean spr _o-ooo-o_ uts," he ended his sentence with a yawn, tears in his eyes. I raised an eyebrow. 

"Is it bedtime for idiots already?" 

"You're not done with your explanation," he reminded me, even though he closed his eyes as he spoke. "You have to finish."

"I'll explain the rest tomorrow," I said irritably, feeling drowsy myself. "It's not a bedtime story, for Heaven's sakes."

This only seemed to give him more ideas. " _Once upon a tiiime, there lived a very sour-faced princess in the courts of the New Capital named Hoshina-no-kimi_ ," came Nagihiko's sleepy singsong voice from under the covers. I tossed the pillow back at his head.

" _She killed all her suitors and threw their bodies in quicksand—"_

" _Go to sleep_!"


	7. Men and Women

CHAPTER 7

 

男女

Men and Women

 

 

 

 

I had promised Nagihiko the rest of my explanation, but I did not count on the repercussions of staying up all night. The next morning gained on me like an approaching train: a thousand pounds of steel and dread, approaching my face at unthinkable speed.

My eyes flew open to too-bright light. Immediately, I fought the temptation tooth and nail to let my eyelids fall blissfully shut again. It felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds, and everything outside my body was cold. Very cold. Why was it so _cold_?

This was the time at which I usually woke up; there was no reason for me to be dragging my feet like this… or eyelids, I should say. Except that there was, because… I rubbed my eyes blearily. Because we had helped Utau sneak out, and then punished for it, and then Nadeshiko had me up all hours of the night explaining corporate law to her— _that saucy minx. This was all her fault._

I sat up on an elbow, and immediately winced with pain. The scabs on my back stretched menacingly over my skin. I spent several agonising minutes attempting to find a comfortable position to no avail.

I gave up, falling back onto my stomach with a soft _fwump_. On my far right, Nagihiko's dark head struggled to break the surface of his bedcovers, like a cormorant drowning in the ocean. Beautiful. My eyelids drooped shut.

I couldn't stay focused through sleepiness and a more subconscious feeling of dissatisfaction. There was something remarkably odd about today's morning; something felt different. I had never woken up at the same time as Nagihiko before; he was always gone in the mornings. It felt rather intimate to be waking up together—wait.

_Nagihiko was still here._

_Nagihiko was not supposed to still be here._

The covers rustled. Nagihiko sat up, squinting into the sunlight and looking all the world like an old-timey woodblock. I was interested to note that his hair was still stick-straight and looked freshly combed, even though he had been burrowing in his bed like a rabbit. How did it _do_ that?

"Hello," he said groggily, as if speaking through a mist. "What a disgusting morning."

I had a moment of silence for this solemn proclamation, before remembering my sense of urgency.

"Nagihiko,” I mumbled, “You have dancing."

Being not much for enunciating at the crack of bloody dawn, it came out sounding like " _Naghlkl… youha danding_?" I did not bother to correct myself, being too tired, and busy debating the merit of faking tuberculosis for two more hours of sleep.

Nagihiko did not seem particularly bothered by this.

"Oh, yes," he said vaguely. His eyes were closed but his back was straight, like he was having a tea ceremony in bed. "Yes. Yes."

"Stop."

"Yes."

"Stop it."

"Yes."

"Your mother." I said, sharply. Nagihiko's eyes opened a crack. I could see a strip of ivory white under his dark lashes.

"Dancing. You have lessons before class. _What time is it_?"

"Hmmm." Nagihiko rolled over, thoughtfully, so that he was facing away from me. Rude. "I don't know."

"Then check."

Silence. He had fallen back asleep.

_As always, men were completely useless_. With difficulty, I wiggled into an upright position, wincing all the while, and grabbed my dressing gown from the hook by my bed. Wool wrapped tightly around me, I walked with tottering, uneven steps towards the clock on Nagihiko's nightstand to inspect the time.

Immediately, I knew I had made a mistake. Instead of a time-telling device, I was greeted by a brass face lined with two rows of numbers and zodiac symbols, rotating lazily inside a glass case. The two revolving pistons at the top made an unconvincing _tick-tick-tick_ noise, which seemed all the world like a dog doing a poor imitation of a cat's meow.

Like everything else in the blasted Fujisaki arsenal, it dated from roughly five hundred years ago, and was thus incomprehensible to my modernized mind. I could no more read it than I could decipher German.

I looked down on Nagihiko's sleeping face with disapproval. His mouth was open. Repulsive.

"Nagihiko," I hissed, "Your clock's all funny."

I pressed up on the underside of his chin, trying to close his mouth, but it kept falling open again. I could practically see his tonsils. _Was that normal_?

"Five more minutes," yawned Nagihiko. His mouth stretched open. Disgusting.

"No, not _five more minutes_ ," I growled back, absolutely outraged at this blatant impudence. " _Now._ What has gotten into you?"

"Sleep deprivation."

Thoroughly fed up, I hunched my woollen shoulders around myself like an affronted sheep. "I _told_ you that you'd be tired yesterday, but you didn't listen to me because you are stupid. Get up this instant, and _decipher this worthless timekeeping device for me_."

Nagihiko finally closed his mouth, but his eyes refused to open. Instead, he shifted to lying on his side, rubbing his cheek. "Tell me where the arrow is pointing."

Temporarily quelled, I glanced at the clock again. It took me several minutes to work this out; the arrow was tiny.

"At the character for 'dragon'," I finally said. "Are you telling me that it's _dragon o'clock_?"

"Yes." Nagihiko was now rubbing his entire face with both hands, like a rat grooming itself. "If you look at the inside circle, they have the Western time symbols—"

"This is ridiculous!" I squinted at the face, realized that wasn't dignified, and straightened up. "Six."

"Definitely not six o'clock," said Nagihiko sleepily, narrowing his eyes at the window over my bed. "The sun's too high for that…"

In the time it took to steep a cup of tea, his face drifted from placid indifference, to one of surprised realization, to horror. I took voracious pleasure from watching his concept of time sink in. Eyes flying open, he scrambled for the clock with both hands and turned it to face him. Evidently, he could read dragons better than I could.

"Rima— _how long have I been sleeping?_ "

Having already told him eighty billion times that he had missed dancing lessons, I instead folded my arms coolly and stared. He could work it out for himself.

"Has class started?" he added quickly, throwing the covers back.

I shook my head, deliberately. He relaxed, only slightly.

"It can't be helped," I commented, turning so that my mat of curls narrowly missed slapping his face. I took down my uniform from where it hung in the wardrobe. It wasn't _me_ missing dancing lessons, after all. "Will sensei even care? She kept you up late."

_Up late, punishing us for no reason,_ I implied silently.

"She will." Nagihiko grimaced, wrenching his yukata off and lunging for his uniform shirt. I made a startled squawk and tottered back, like a ruffled flamingo.

_"Excuse me?!_ " I spluttered, holding my collar's scarf up over my eyes. "What happened to the _modesty rule_?"

"The modesty rule?" Nagihiko fluttered in his worst Nadeshiko voice, cadence diving up and down the scales. He yanked his shirt over his head in record time. "Is that the rule where I remind you that _my eyes are up here_?"

Nagihiko raised his eyebrows, and looked down at himself pointedly. I realized I was staring directly at his chest over the top of my scarf, eyes slightly glazed over.

"No. _No_ ," I snapped, averting my eyes and flouncing behind the screen set up in the corner. "It's the one where you don’t _ruin my marriage prospects!_ "

"Mashiro-san, treasured colleague, light of my life, blooming rose of the business market, I hate to be the one to tell you this—"

"Perhaps you ought to first ask yourself if you should say anything at all?" I asked gently from behind the screen.

"—But your marriage prospects have been ruined ever since that time you swatted that poor boy's arm away and went... what was it? _Please don't pilfer my sleeve with your peasant hands, it's an inconvenience._ "

"That must have been years ago,” I said. Was this another scare tactic? Why was she bringing this up? Who... _who even was that?_ I took a moment to compose myself behind the screen. “I don't remember it at all. Perhaps you are making it up."

I reappeared from behind the screen to tie my scarf in the mirror. Nadeshiko leaned over my shoulder, straightening hers.

"You wouldn't have, I suppose," she said, pulling her hair on top of her head. "But I did. Kirishima-san… was that his name? He was besotted with you."

She smiled, smugly, having successfully pulled one over on me. I gave her a taken-aback look.

"Do you really not remember?" Nadeshiko said, surprised. "Hmm... well, you do have a reputation that precedes you for attracting men and repelling girls."

She let the proclamation hang tantalizingly in the air, before taking her leave.

I stewed. _For attracting men and repelling girls?_ Who did she think she was? I trotted after her briskly, hair ribbon still clutched in my hands.

"Did Yamabuki-san tell you that? Because she couldn't get a man to look at her if she was covered head to toe in Kobe beef and oiran paint, it's fairly clear that she's just sinking to desperate measures—"

“No, she didn’t,” Nadeshiko laughed. "Which one does that make me, then?"

My walking rhythm broke, and I had to stop and start again. "I don't follow."

Nadeshiko pointed at her own face, smiling beatifically. "Which am I, Rima-chan? You always bully me like I’m a girl, don’t you? But I’m actually a boy, aren’t I? So, which one do you think I am?"

Was this some sort of fairy tale riddle I had to answer before I could cross a bridge? I made a face.

"I refuse to dignify this with a response," I said evasively, squinting out onto the sunny lawn. I couldn’t tell what answer Nadeshiko had expected— her expression had returned to her default masklike smile.

Falling quiet, I watched a bird nest in one of the trees. "That reminds me…"

Nadeshiko blinked at me, holding the door to the dining hall open. "Hm?"

"The letter Hoshina-san got a few days ago," I murmured, more to myself. "It had a crest on it, like yours."

Family crests, more roundels than anything, functioned as identifiers for prominent families and business companies and dated back to the age of the samurai. I, falling into neither category, did not have one. The only reason I remembered was because they had been the only spots of white on Nagihiko's dark clothes last night. Three white circles, bobbing in front of me, trailing wisteria on every one.

"Mine?" Nadeshiko pointed to herself, giving me a puzzled look. Then her eyes suddenly widened with understanding. " _Ah—_ on my haori, you mean!"

I nodded.  

"Oh, yes. That’s the Fujisaki clan seal. Falling wisteria." Nadeshiko mimed two dangling wisteria branches with her arms, and then dropped them, crestfallen. "It doesn't look as good without the props.

“But the Hoshinas wouldn't have one… why would it be on an envelope?" With a bite of snobbery— "Only old merchant and samurai families have crests, Rima-chan."

"You can be _such a prig_. This is the twentieth century, you know," I sneered back. "Companies have crests too, that's what I’m talking about— it's an identifier, on stamps and such— I was thinking about what Utau-san was saying last night, and—" It all came out in a jumble. I tripped over my words.

"Slowly, slowly. Take your time."

Nadeshiko pulled me through the doors, crouching down so that she was on my level. Like a condescending uncle, she put her hands on my shoulders in what she probably thought was a comforting motion. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hīragi and her glasses roommate jostle through the dining hall doors, giving us curious looks.

I took a deep breath, eyeing her hands mistrustfully. " _Zaibatsu_ have family crests, too. There was one on the envelope Utau got... the sideways crescent moon with a dot in the centre. It’s almost certainly the business’s crest, is it not? And at first I wondered why they would be mailing Utau-san, until last night…. she said…"

" _'They're still trying to force me to sell my shares back to the company_ ,'" Nadeshiko finished for me, encouragingly.

"Yes," I furrowed my brow, concerned. Sleep deprivation was muddling my cognitive ability. "Utau and Ikuto-san collectively own so much of the company because of stock they inherited… so… I suppose that's troublesome for Miss Hoshina's new husband."

"How so?"

"Well," I said, very quietly. "If Hoshina Souko-san doesn't have another child, Utau’s brother will be default heir to the company. And even if he isn't… she said they owned over _fifty percent_ of the company collectively."

"So together, they're essentially co-directors?"

"Yes," I said, shrewdly. "No wonder the director wants to make them sell their stock back. They’ve got a great deal of power in their hands"

"… _Crikey,_ " Nadeshiko breathed.

"Oh, hello."

Utau was standing there: hip cocked, eyebrow raised, as perfect and impressive-looking as ever. We both jumped apart and straightened up. Nadeshiko snatched her hands from my shoulders like she had been caught touching precious china.

_Had Utau heard us_? From the look on her face, she most certainly had. I remembered what had happened to the last girl who was caught talking about Utau’s mother— _verbally lashed to tears_ was the phrase I used, I believe.

"You two are friendly, for a pair that used to snap at each other like feuding chickens," she observed with suspicion. Not exactly my preferred simile.

"Good morning, Hoshina-san." Nadeshiko raised an eyebrow and looked over her shoulder, as if she was expecting to see a fantabulous rooster tail trailing behind her. "Perhaps you’re right, but even two feuding roosters will cooperate when they're staring into the eyes of a cat."

“I’m not a chicken,” I said.

"How very poetic," Utau replied, acridly. "Both of you, _sit down._ "

She sounded so uncannily like Sanjō-san that we both immediately dropped onto the closest bench.

Utau walked around the table like a formidable general surveying her troops, taking a seat opposite us rather gingerly. I remembered, all of a sudden, that she was probably more sore than I was— and that aside, she didn't have a roommate with an illicit medicinal drug supply. I exchanged a worried look with Nadeshiko, who seemed to be temporarily absorbed in her own lap.

"Well, then," Utau said abruptly. "Let's make this quick before Amu and Yuiki come down for breakfast. I want to make this absolutely clear: what happened last night was _none of your business_."

It was almost funny how much I had anticipated this. Nadeshiko looked very intimidated, but I felt bored, at best. I had a suspicion that Utau's bark was worse than her bite.

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?" I replied disinterestedly. "My back's already bleeding."

"Rima–" Nadeshiko began placatingly. Utau's eyes flashed.

"You came out of your own volition, knew what you were signing up for. I didn't ask you to do so, nor did I ask you to get wrapped up in this."

"Yes, well, here's the kicker, see?" I pulled a bowl of rice towards myself, drawling. Nadeshiko looked scandalized, as if talking and eating at the same time was a greater concern than confronting Hoshina Utau. "It's our business because you made it Amu's business."

"She's… not wrong, Hoshina-san," Nadeshiko murmured back into her skirt in her most feminine voice, trying her very best to have a backbone. "Of all people to bring into this…"

"Amu—" she began, furiously.

"—Is the only person you see as a friend, which is why you asked her," I cut her off, vehemently. I felt a pang of unwilling sympathy, although I kept it from my voice. "I understand better than you give me credit for, Hoshina-san. It is seldom easy to trust others when you've had to keep secrets. Do you fancy the two of us so terribly different?"

A muscle twitched in Utau's jaw. Nadeshiko twisted around to stare at me incredulously. I tucked a thick curl behind my ear, self-consciously.

"… It is not pleasant nor easy," I added, slowly, "To swallow your pride and place your confidence in people. One isn't always rewarded with a favourable outcome. But as you can see, I’ve learnt to tolerate Fujisaki-san, and the world hasn’t yet ended."

"Goodness gracious," Nadeshiko said, visibly touched. "From Rima-chan, that's like _I love you_."

"Ho ho," I said in a bored voice. "Don't get a swelled head, or you won't be able to jam your hat on. Look—if you wish, Utau-san, I'll never bring it up to your face again. But you can't stop me from _understanding_ , for Heaven's sakes."

"How could you possibly?" she replied, through gritted teeth. "You have _no idea_ what it's been like for me and Ikuto."

"Of course I don't, don't be presumptuous," I said dismissively, waving a hand carelessly. "But I can use my bloody imagination, can't I? I don't like Hoshina group's Director Ichinomiya any more than you do."

Evidently, this was a more gravitational pronouncement than I had reckoned. The man was a storybook villain, but Nadeshiko was giving me a confused, sympathetic look as if I had proclaimed my distaste for something completely incidental and irrelevant, like a head of cabbage.  

"Is that…?" Nadeshiko began tentatively, looking from me to Utau. Utau was the one that answered, narrowing her eyes at me mistrustfully. "My mother's second husband, yes. Why would you have a reason to hate him, of all people?"

"Nobody at this school pays attention to those outside the top tax bracket, do they?" I commented, offhandedly. This was the second person in twenty-four hours who I was trusting with secretive company business. I had clearly gone insane from lack of sleep, but a lady must practice what she preaches.

"My family exports silk,” I added, robotically. At this point it was a mantra. “We're not even your competitors, mind, but your new leadership's been causing my own family trouble for months now. Do you think they appreciate accusations of _Western fraternization_ being thrown left and right by the Hoshina Group?"

" _What?!_ " Nadeshiko spluttered, whirling around to stare at me. " _Western frate–_ Rima-chan– you didn't tell me _that_!"

"You didn't ask, and you'll hear no more of it," I said sulkily. I was regretting this already. "What I'm _trying_ to say is that it is in my own best interests to keep my mouth shut about this mess. None of us told sensei, did we?"

Nadeshiko waved her hand across her face in a delicate _no_. Utau shook her head.

"Good." Throat dry, I said in a whisper, "Nadeshiko, teapot."

Nagihiko, the eternal doormat, picked up the teapot and poured me tea. Taking a dainty sip, I fixed Utau with a stare over the rim.

"The Hoshina Group, as of late, is threatened by the smaller businesses that operate outside the realm of the all-powerful _zaibatsu_. Frankly, I'm thoroughly bored of it. I'm on your side."

"As much as I'm loathe to say it," Nadeshiko said, sliding another cup of tea across the table towards Utau, "So am I. The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

“You must not have that many friends,” I said, unable to help myself.

Nadeshiko folded her hands under her own chin, smiling beatifically. "I serve only the emperor, Rima-chan. I scorn mercantile companies and governments that muddy his divine authority."

"Fujisaki, you're even more of a freak than I thought." Utau put down her cup, sardonically. She paused, and then muttered.

"… Thank you."

Nadeshiko smiled mysteriously. I turned my head and crammed more rice in my mouth.

Amu and Yaya finally appeared in the dining hall not long after, near the end of breakfast. Amu's face was worried, drawn; the minute she saw us, it broke forth with relief.

" _Nadeshiko!_ You're never here for breakfast, is everything okay– y-you and Rima, I was so worried!"  Amu wrung her hands like a distressed raccoon, working herself into a frenzy. "Sanjō-sensei just told me to go back to my room last night and refused to tell me _anything_! I had no idea what happened, and—well—what… happened?"

For the briefest moments, I made eye contact with Nagihiko; he bit his lip, guiltily.

“Just a few slaps on the wrist,” I said, taking another sip of tea. “I got lucky. Sanjō yelled a lot, though.”

Amu wailed and threw her arms around us. Yaya, not to be excluded from an opportunity to be noisy, wrapped the side of Utau's head in a tight hug. I was very grateful when Kichigai-sensei flew off the handle at them, shrieking like a deranged vulture and forcing them to relinquish their grip.

In Amu's hand, I saw a bunch of letters were grasped; I looked at her enquiringly.

"Oho,” said Nadeshiko, coyly, seeing it too. “Has someone been flirting with the post-boy?"

"D-don’t be ridiculous!" Amu stammered, face going red. "Just because he's sort of cool… I-I mean, I figured since I was the late one, I might as well bring the post, instead of, well–"

She looked at Utau, nervously. Utau stared back, impassive.

"I figured it was better for me to give this to you, rather than Watarai-san, given the, erm, circumstances," Amu mumbled. She slid the envelope across the table. The same family crest I had described earlier was clearly visible on the front: a crescent moon enclosing a dot. Nadeshiko looked at me. I gave her an _I told you so_ look.

" _Another one?_ " Utau hissed. "It's only been a week. Dirt is certainly persistent."

"Figures, since money and power's on the line. Old men are simple-minded," I said, conversationally. Amu placed a letter next to my bowl. "Hm?"

"Tokyo's on the return address." Amu pointed to it. "Is it your mother?"

I picked it up with two dainty fingers, scanning the address briefly. A familiar Chūō-dori Ginza address stared back at me like a friendly face through a window, and my heart leapt. Nadeshiko leaned to read over my shoulder, the faint scent of camellias wafting over me.

"Bother," I muttered, turning it over. "Surely she couldn't have written back to Fujisaki-sensei's letter _this_ fast, could she?"

"Can’t be," said Amu, with her mouth full. She was trying to eat breakfast as fast as she could, because class was in minutes. She chewed, and swallowed. "I mean, even if she sent them express, they'd only be getting there tomorrow."

_So this letter had already in the post for a while_ , I thought. I struggled to open it neatly, and finally settled on tearing it open raggedly with a fingernail.

"Odd– _ah!_ "

More clumsy than usual from lack of sleep, my finger slipped on the edge of the thick paper. The pad of my thumb stung, and I gasped a little. A bloody _papercut, of all things!_ This would be the first thing I complained about in my return letter— _Dear Mother, you may be rest assured that your letter arrived safely. The same cannot be said for myself, as your choice in paper proceeded to slice open my precious flesh..._

"Rima-chan?!" Nadeshiko jumped like a startled partridge, watching a tiny bead of blood drip onto the envelope. "Are you alright? _E-eurgh,_ you're bleeding all over the place! Let me—"

With my unscathed hand, I was already fishing in my front pocket for my handkerchief. But in my rush to get dressed this morning, I had forgotten to take one; my pockets came up empty.

Nagihiko always had one— or two, or three. I automatically looked to him expectantly.  Without missing a beat, he procured one from his breast pocket and yanked my wrist towards himself roughly. 

"Oy!" I hissed at him, offended by this manhandling. "I'm a _delicate woman_ , not a fish you're about to boil!"

Nagihiko ignored me in favour of trying to stop the blood with his handkerchief, dark eyes focused away from my hand, at some point over my shoulder. I recalled how he seemed to lose his will to continue hitting me last night when I began to bleed. Was he queasy at the sight of blood?

I privately filed this away, and briefly mourned the alliance that kept me from abusing this newfound weakness. 

"I can do it.” I took pity on him, tugging my hand from his cooler one. "I'll return your handkerchief, I promise."

Nadeshiko relinquished me far too quickly. "If you say so," she said, nervously.

We both looked up to see Amu, Yaya and Utau all staring at us like we had proclaimed our undying love for each other.

"Class," said Utau, brusquely.

Class turned out to be music, which was great for Utau and terrible for the rest of us. Despite all that had happened, I had to admire Sanjō-sensei's poise; she barely acknowledged us as she walked in, and certainly did not have the face of a woman who had been kept up late.

In fact, the only one who seemed to be paying _any_ kind of bodily toll for sleep fatigue was me, much to my own outrage. On my right, Nadeshiko had impenetrably white, puffy lower eyelids and thick skin that barely showed expression, never mind dark circles. On my left, Utau's skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, giving her a similarly impassive face.

One that looked… remarkably _good_ for someone who had been beaten worse than I was. Leaning forward suspiciously, I saw a barely-iridescent powdery texture visible on her hairline. Was Utau wearing _makeup?_ I cursed her acumen. Had I known that makeup was an acceptable cheating method, I would have used it to my own advantage!

Discreetly edging behind Nadeshiko's wide shoulder, I pulled my folding compact mirror out of my pocket to survey the damage. Wide eyes the colour of milk tea stared back at me; my normally-rosy cheeks were stark and my under-eyes darkly bruised, like a peach's flesh. _Ugh._ My eyes narrowed.

"Mashiro!" Sanjō cut in sharply, folding her arms. The entire class turned around to stare at me. Enjoying the audience, I stared into the mirror and patted my fringe down fussily.

"When you're _quite_ done preening, would you kindly take your place with the koto section instead of hiding behind Fujisaki's shoulder where you think I can't see you?"

There were a handful of titters. Nadeshiko glanced down at me, amused. I snapped my mirror shut, tucking it back into my pocket and glancing up.

"I can't, sensei," I deadpanned, holding up my thumb wrapped in colourful flowered cotton. "I'm wounded."

"Is this true, Fujisaki-san?" Sanjō said, not bothering to glance up. If she had, she would have realized that the thumb isn't needed for plucking koto strings. Thankfully, Sanjō was too busy trying to avoid eye contact.

"It is," Nadeshiko responded, folding her hands in front of her in a perfect teacher's pet manner. "There was blood everywhere. It was unpleasant."

"You're unpleasant," I added, kindly.

"Both of you are unpleasant," said Sanjō, sounding thoroughly fed up with the banter at this point. "Very well— Fujisaki, take Mashiro's place on koto, Yukina, take Fujisaki's place on shamisen, just for today, and try to play along as best you can. Mashiro, you can stay where you are in the singing section."

The finality in her voice left no room for argument. I wondered what the hell she was thinking; my voice was soft and hoarse, like an owl’s. From the moment I stepped into her class, Sanjō had sensed my lack of vocal talents and placed me in the stringed instrument section. I didn't mind playing the koto most days, but I had hoped she would say something like “ _very well, Mashiro, since you have a papercut on your finger, you can go back to your dormitory room and nap for three hours.”_ Unfortunately, Sanjō was an irredeemable twit. What was this totalitarian state I was living in? This was oppression. I sulked.

Over the sound of my sulking, Sanjō cleared her throat, rustling her music sheets.

“Now, as Mashiro so splendidly indicates with her convenient injury, now is not the time to slack in your musical education. As the older students should already know—”

Oh, _sod off,_ Sanjō!

“—we perform every July at the local tanabata festival in front of a considerable crowd. That’s roughly a month and a half from now, so we will begin practicing today. I expect you all to be keeping up and practicing in your off-hours; I hear a great deal of giggling at night, but not nearly enough string-twanging.”

Everyone collectively made a guilty face. Misaki twisted around in her seat to stare at me with a huge frown; I stared blankly back, to assert my dominance. 

"… At the very least,” Sanjō droned, “You should work hard to support your classmates with singing and dancing parts."

At _dancing_ , our heads automatically snapped to Nadeshiko, who was tuning the strings of my koto in her lap with a beatific look. Sanjō rolled her eyes, exasperatedly. "Fujisaki-san is one of them, yes, as you might have guessed."

A few girls threw Nadeshiko glowing looks and murmured congratulations. I gave her a dubious side-eye.

" _Whaaaat?_ The Tanabata dancers been picked _already_?" Yaya shouted out, anxiously. "Who are the others, sensei? Tell us!"

There was a desperate clamour of voices, and several girls leaned forward eagerly.

"It's me, isn't it? Isn't it, sensei–?”

"It's obviously _me_!" Yamabuki Sāya crowed over the din, like an incoming ham.

Sanjō slammed her fist down on the ground like a judge's gavel. Everyone fell silent faster than a gunshot.

"Yuiki is one."

Yaya gasped theatrically, lungs heaving like they were full of saltwater. " _Hhhhhhhhhhggggkk!_ "

"The others are Hinamori, Himekawa, Kirimori..." Sanjō pushed her glasses up with a finger, droning on a list of roughly fifteen people. "… And Watanabe. Are we _done here?_ _May I move on_?"

" _E-ehhh?!?_ " Amu's eyes went wide. Not a chance.

One of Amu’s other, less cool friends— Manami, maybe— put her hands on Amu's shoulders like a proud mother, boasting. "As expected of Amu-chan!  So cool!"

"I never expected–" Amu spluttered, but she was drowned out. The classroom henceforth burst into debate over whether or not Amu was good enough for the part. I acted swiftly.  

"Which one's Himekawa-san, again?" I asked whomever could hear, despite not particularly caring for the answer. Just as planned, Watarai Loudmouth Misaki heard me and repeated my question at the volume of a freight train.

"Hey!" she bellowed. "Who's Himekawa?"

Yaya answered the classroom's curiosity, eagerly. "Himekawa-senpai's in the other class! I hear her mama's a professional ballerina, so she's really good!"

"I really don't care, Yuiki," said Sanjō dismissively. "Anyway, as I was saying, there will also be a member of the prefectural school board there observing the proceedings. Your best behaviour is recommended."

Sanjō pursed her lips at this, as if she had swallowed a lemon. The classroom continued to buzz.

Why were we being inspected by government stooge at a festival, of all things…? Well, it wasn't any of my concern. Hopefully it would give Fujisaki-sensei something to do, besides ruin my life. I made a face.

"On that note, we'll start with _Kimi ga yo_. Shamisens up, ladies. On one, two–"

 My finger twitched against my leg, silently counting the koto section in. I whispered the entire national anthem, and allowed Utau's belting to drown me out.

At lunchtime, I ate with a bunch of small-time celebrities. Much to my unending annoyance, a constant stream of people kept coming over to congratulate my friends on landing the dancing parts in the festival. But mostly, they just showed up to lick Nadeshiko's boots.

"I mean, it figures, of course," gushed Hīragi's roommate, clasping her hands together like a stringy idiot. "With a father like yours… my family always goes to see Fujisaki Aoi IV's plays when he performs in Ginza. His Oiwa gave me _chills_."

I almost grinned to myself, remembering that Nagihiko's father hated Tokyo.

"I couldn't sleep for weeks," she added, eyes going maniacally wide. _Was that a good thing_? "But then, we hardly ever see Nadeshiko-san dance. I'm really excited! I'll give it my undivided attention— um, but I'll still make sure to play my koto, though."

"You'd better," I remarked, giving Marimo the Roommate the grumpy side-eye. She was the best koto player we had, and had a solo portion. If she was too busy drooling over Nadeshiko's delicate feetsies, we'd all go under.

Everyone ignored me.

"You saw Father in _Ghost Story of Yotsuya_?" Nagihiko's eyes lit up a little, putting his chopsticks down. He smiled bright enough to rival the sun; Marimo blinked dazedly at his face. "When I was a child, I loved watching the scene in Act Two when Oiwa just _picks up the sword and stabs it through her own throat_ , my heart starts beating so fast and I—"

"Alright, Nadeshiko-san," I cut across her smoothly, stepping on Nagihiko's foot, _hard_. Marimo's face had rapidly gone from dreamy to terrified, and Utau was staring at Nadeshiko like she had committed a murder. "You'll have to beg her pardon, Hakenake-san. Nadeshiko is a little tired today."

"I'm Hatanaka," she said, earnestly. "We play the koto together."

"I know," I said, blankly. She gave me a crestfallen face.

Once Hatoneko was out of earshot, I whirled on Nadeshiko. _“What are you doing_?"I hissed.

"What do you mean?" Nadeshiko made a pouty face, like I was yelling at her.

"She's right," said Utau, staring at Nadeshiko with some amusement. "Girls don't act like that about ghost stories. It isn't cute."

I was suddenly fidgety. _Utau couldn't possibly know that, could she?_ Heavens. I needed to relax, and stop acting like a paranoid mother hen.

Yaya laughed with her mouth open, rice falling onto her shirt. "Usually Nade-chin puts some effort into it! She'll cover her mouth and go ' _ara-ara, how spooky_!' "

"No, no, Yaya, you're putting too much gusto into it." I pushed my shoulders back and held a finger against my throat like I had seen Nagihiko do sometimes. With a hum, I forced my voice out at a terse pitch. " _Goodness gracious! How terribly chilling! The ghosts are as energetic as ever, it seems!"_

"What are you, a myna bird?" said Utau, sounding far more disturbed than impressed.

Amu jumped to her defence. "You guys, stop bullying Nadeshiko! It's not her fault she's kind of a weirdo and into scary things, like g-ghosts!"

"I'm not like I'm _into_ them… I just find them beautiful," Nadeshiko said modestly, turning her head away from us with a soulful look in her eyes. "There's nothing more striking than a crazed dead woman, bent on revenge."

"Oh, is that why you enjoy manners class so much, Nadeshiko?" I said, snidely.

The entire table cackled. I sat back, pleased with myself.

"If you want a woman bent on revenge, you'll be glad to know that your favourite class is after lunch," said Nadeshiko, eyes glittering maliciously. Immediately, my brief pleasure evaporated, and I scowled.

"Eh- you mean dancing lessons?" Amu said sympathetically, leaning over the table around Nadeshiko. "Oh, oh no, that's right— Fujisaki-sensei wrote home about it!"

Her eyes went round, and she pointed at me with a shaking finger. "So that's why your mama sent you a letter in the middle of term like this! I-I'm sorry, Rima, I totally forgot until just now!"

Whoops. So had I, to be frank.

"Is she super angry with you?" Yaya whispered, like I was already on my deathbed.

I gave Nagihiko a cursory glance, as if to silently remind him of the hole his lies had dug us into.

"I haven't read it," I said— and this part was truthful. I wanted some privacy. When Mama wrote, it was serious business, and I was wary about people looking over my shoulder. "But probably not. She sends me here so that I can become a marriageable woman, not a dancing prostitute."

Yaya whistled. "So scary."

"So offensive," lamented Nadeshiko behind her sleeve.

"Why should I even go in the first place?" I got up and gathered my dishes. "We do the same dance. _Every year_. We can all do it in our sleep."

"Mashiro-san's got a point," said Utau, seriously. "If we dance too much, we might turn into prostitutes."

We all looked in unison at Nadeshiko.

Nadeshiko winked suggestively.

In the end, I followed the others to the dance classroom with dragging feet and a heavy heart. I hardly wanted to face Fujisaki-sensei, but the longer I pored it over, the more I realized how suspicious this would look; she would certainly notice my absence. So, with no choice in the matter, I went.

Nadeshiko's mother taught dance class herself, and monitored it very closely for girls who showed signs of promise. So far, her search had proven fruitless. It was true that Amu had stage presence, and Yaya had clumsy skill honed through months of blood, sweat and tears. But neither were particularly talented, and neither showed very much interest in it as a career. I didn't blame them. Once upon a time, being a dancer meant prestige and, with luck, patrons. But with the economic depression came a decline in the old arts. Only the established old families like the Fujisakis remained in the trade, to hang on for dear life and pray that they outlasted the drought.

And it was a wonder they had held on as long as they had! Classical Japanese dancing was tepid, dragging, painstakingly tedious. It was little movements, tiny shuffles, gentle turns, less like dancing and more like a toy figurine moving on a rotary motor. In contrast, the dances of kabuki were quick, bombastic and sweeping— based more in pantomime and slapstick than in beauty, riddled with jokes and exaggerated gestures. But kabuki was masculine, and deemed useless for girls.

" _It's unlikely that you will ever dance again after you graduate_ ," Fujisaki-sensei often sighed, in a grim disapproving sort of way, " _But you'll thank me when you're married. Dance makes your steps tiny and graceful. If it wasn't for this, you would all walk like peasants."_

If I had my way, I would still be tromping around like a hulking peasant. But Fujisaki-sensei was right: three years of lessons had given me small steps, straight posture, and not a lick of talent.

"Mashiro-san, _lighter arms_!" The witch herself sang out across the room, over the sound of the tinny recording. "Buoyant and aloft like a butterfly, not wobbly. You are _not a bowl of noodles_!"

_You’re making me wish I was one_ , I thought. For good measure, I made my arms floppier, like a chicken making a desperate bid for flight. The shamisen recording scratched and twanged through static fuzz, reminding me that I could be practicing koto.

"You're just not trying," Utau said from my left, giving me a now-familiar _how dare you complain_ stare. She continued to turn on the spot like a figurine in a music box. It was a very half-hearted motion; Utau danced like it was an afterthought.

"Neither are you," I pointed out, arms flopping.

"I practice," she shot back. “It improves work ethic, to do things one hates."

If that was true, I'd have the work ethic of a carpenter ant. It wasn't my fault that dancing was disinteresting, and that I would much rather think about what was for dinner than continue to hobble along like this.

Nadeshiko whooshed behind me, ponytail nearly slapping the back of my head. I turned my head to snap, like a cocker spaniel flushing out a duck, when Fujisaki-sensei’s crocodilian voice rang in my ears.

“Mashiro, _head forward_!”

I grit my teeth behind closed lips.

A lady did not slam doors, but the walls shook when I shut the door behind me. The empty dormitory room rang with silence. Nagihiko was still at dancing lessons. Normally, I cherished this hour to myself; but today, I longed more than anything to see Nagihiko’s wan face waiting for me at the writing-desk, ready to listen to me hurl vitriol about lessons and his toxic mother.

Well, that was fine. I had more productive things to do, anyway. Taking my koto from its substantial lacquer case, I arranged myself at Nagihiko’s writing-desk. No sooner had I poised the pick in my hand when I heard the sound of paper crumpling from my skirt.

_Mother’s letter!_ I dropped the pick and pulled it out of my pocket, turning it over with loving hands. In all of the ruckus at breakfast, I had forgotten it was there. But now that I was alone, I could read it.

To my surprise, three sheaves of paper fell out of the envelope, all in differing tints of white. Mother did not mince words; she was laconic on paper and in-person. So why…? 

The first sheet was clean, off-white business stationary, the likes of which mother wrote on, but the writing was an endless line of English loops. My English literacy was still poor, and I could no more read cursive handwriting than I could backflip out the bloody window.

I read it anyway, hands shaking slightly; every restrained loop of the G’s, every skitter of the lowercase M’s on the invisible line. I touched the words at the very top, from the curly tail of the R to the trailing wave of the A. _Rima. Dear Rima_.

I turned it over and over again, feverishly, several times. Then, I peeked at the piece of paper behind it. This one was stiffer, whiter paper. A lion and a unicorn fought each other on either side of the shield at the top of the page, but the script was clean and vertical, stencilled Japanese.

With embarrassment, I realized that I was holding the paper only several inches from my face. I flattened it over the table to read.

Notarized by sworn public translator 29th May—

That was irrelevant. I jumped down a line.

Dear Rima,

It’s been some time since my last letter. Things are busy in London, with this and that — there are many letters to write, not least of which to you. I trust that your mother to forward this to your address, as I do not recall the name of your school. Due to very recent

“Rima?”

I pressed the letter to my chest, turning around. Nagihiko’s eyes jumped suspiciously from my breathless face to the letter.

“Forgive me.” Innocently, he placed his hand on the doorknob. “Would you like some more time alone so that you can finish rea…?”

“I don’t care,” I said, impatient from interruption. “This is your room, too.”

Cautiously, he closed the door behind him and went directly to the wardrobe. I realized I was still clutching the letter to my breast.

“It’s nothing weird,” I added, defensively.

“I never said it was,” Nagihiko said, maddeningly calm.

My lips tightened. I couldn’t tolerate him thinking whatever he wanted, so I goaded him into striking. “You’re in no place to judge me.”

Nagihiko turned over his shoulder to smile dazzlingly at me, the picture of pleasantry.  “Oh, come, now. Having a paramour outside of school jurisdiction is hardly odd at our age, Mashiro-san. Why would I judge you over something so trivial?”

I had never met a man so full of himself that he’d jump to any conclusion on the puffed-up assurance of his own perceptiveness. I narrowed my eyes at him, curling my lip. “Shockingly, it’s not a _paramour_. How deluded can you be?”

Without waiting for a response, I turned back to the letter.

Due to very recent developments, I have compelled myself to write and alert you of such matters in your interest. You must forgive me for my brevity— for even now I cannot spare much time to write this— and also my vagueness, for the walls have eyes.

“ _Who is it, then_?” Nadeshiko said intensely, as if unable to stop herself from jamming her Roman nose into my business.

“ _Shhh!”_ I hissed. She _shhh_ ed. 

Your mother and I have long sustained an understanding that, should your living conditions become less-than-ideal within Japan, your passage overseas would be taken care of. By all means, I do not say this to startle you; I understand that you are still in school, and I fully expect you to complete your education. I broach the subject only to assure you of its verity, and allow you some time to grow used to the idea, as it would be a considerable adjustment.

I would hardly expect you to arrive as soon as the coming year, especially when your schooling remains incomplete. If, however, you should consent, you can always send word through the embassy in Tokyo, which has a direct wire to my offices.

All my love—

Father.

He always signed that way, because _Daddy_ was too juvenile and his name too formal. _Father, father._ I gazed at the letter for a few minutes, breath heaving in my chest. _Join me here… passage overseas—_

When I looked up, Nadeshiko was staring at me across the room like an eager cat waiting to be fed.

“It’s family,” I told her, trying to divulge only the barest of scraps. Despite myself, my eyes shone.

“I take it your mother is well?”

“She’d better be,” I murmured, quickly turning back to the desk. Behind Father’s letter lay a sheaf of pretty rice paper, the cleanest white of all. This, most certainly, was mother, and it was no more than two tiny lines. 

_I am forwarding this letter to you. It was held up unusually long in customs at Nagasaki, arriving a few weeks ago. We will talk in July._

Stamped. Brusque. Short. I wanted to smile, but kept my face stoic. “She seems to be in as good health as ever. Did you need something besides reassurance that my mother is not close to dropping dead?”

“As a matter of fact, _Mashiro-san_ , I do.” Nadeshiko turned around, tying her obi jauntily in front of her so that she looked like a teahouse tartlet. “I see that you were going to practice your koto. I have an efficient proposition for you.”

Her eyes were heavy-lidded and seductive. My stomach jumped like a frightened jackrabbit.

“I’m not going to traffic drugs for you,” I said, very fast.

“ _What?!_ ” Nadeshiko burst out into hysterical giggles. I caught a flash of white teeth before her face vanished behind her yukata sleeve, shoulders silently shaking. “I was going to ask if we could practice together. I’m stuck on a difficult part of the wandering song.”

“Nadeshiko-san, stuck on something?” I said, feigning shock. “Surely, it can’t be.”

Clearly my voice was full of more bitterness than I thought. Nadeshiko looked at me, surprised.

“Yes, that’s correct. I’m experiencing difficulty with the steps.” 

“… And so, you’re going to practice in this tiny little room?” I raised both my eyebrows. “I thought that’s what your after-school practice time was for.”

“ _It is_! But when Mother let me leave, I still hadn’t gotten it right…”

“So try again tomorrow,” I suggested.

“Why bother waiting if I can get it right, _now_?” she said, pigheadedly.

Once again, I had been verbally danced into a corner by snakeface Fujisaki. I had hoped to pore over Father’s letter, and perhaps draft a response, but that would have to wait. I slumped over my koto in defeat. “… The Nagasaki Wandering song, is it?”

“Yes, that one. Thank you, Rima-chan,” she said, sweetly.

I lay my koto across my lap and plucked the string, testily. “What did you do to my koto?” I said, unhappily. “It sounds queer.”

“I tuned it.” Smarmily. “That’s what an in-tune koto sounds like.”

_Rubbish. I_ played the first smattering of notes. Reluctantly satisfied, I pulled the koto closer, giving her a final mutinous look before I started playing.

It wasn’t the easiest of pieces, which required me to keep my eyes on the strings at all times. Yet, almost compulsively, my eye was drawn to Nadeshiko’s form. Her dancing was unlike anything I had seen her do in class before—her body was fluid and her arms were weightless. I had compared it to dolls on a rotary motor before, but this– _this_ was hardly robotic, even if it was deliberate. Before my very eyes, her face went from a burdened mother to the wide-eyed face of a child, and my fingers stumbled.

“Rima-chan?” Nadeshiko froze, surprised.

“Whoops,” I said, tonelessly.

“Do you want to start again?”

“One moment. Let me take a moment to figure out where my skill went.” I rolled my eyes and sat back on my haunches, letting out an uncharacteristically deep sigh. Nadeshiko took a cautious seat across from me on the floor, watching me anxiously as I studied the music sheet with some distaste.  

“… Bit of a dull song, isn’t it?” I said, conversationally.

Nadeshiko swished her head side-to-side, noncommittally. “It’s alright. You know, this song actually originated in a brothel during the Tokugawa period?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Oh, yes.” She seemed pleased. “Mother likes to say that anything of worth was created by the water trade.”

“I didn’t know the pleasure districts invented money,” I said, in sarcastic surprise.

Nagihiko winked at me, lecherously. “Even older. They pioneered the concept of currency. Supply and demand, you know.”

“ _Disdainful_.”

“Must you be so materialistic?” Nagihiko said, condescendingly. “There are things of worth besides money, you know.”

I hadn’t been talking about the money. “You’re correct, of course,” I said, gravely. “There’s also the value of attention—“

“—water trade—”

“Favours—”

“—water trade—”

“And allegiance!” I said, louder.

Nagihiko paused, in frustration.

“Hm?” I said, sweetly.

“… The samurai class,” he said, reluctantly. “But bought allegiance is worthless.”

I groaned. This felt like school. “Elaborate?”

“The things one will do for money are finite.”

“Wrong. Greed is infinite,” I said, almost enjoying myself.

“Not so!” Nagihiko said. “It is far safer to hold a man’s allegiance through love. Or sex. Or the exchange of favours. _Pleasure districts._ ”

“Oh, so this is how you hold my loyalties?” I asked, contemptuously. “With cheap favours? What a fascinating insight into your twisted mind!”

“No,” said Nagihiko, with a roguish grin. “I believe that’s with love.”

Something hot flashed behind my eyes, but it didn’t feel like anger. I pelted the music sheet at him. Predictably, it hit a gust of wind and blew back in my face.

“A poetic metaphor for most of your endeavours,” Nagihiko observed.

“Sod _off!_ ”

He got to his feet, grinning, and smoothed down the front of his legs. Once again, I put my koto back across my lap, swallowing.

“… You are a very good dancer,” I added, begrudgingly.

I did not pay compliments very often. I expected Nadeshiko to smile modestly at this, dismiss it as nothing, or say that she had so much more to learn. Instead, Nagihiko grinned at me arrogantly, raising his chin ever-so-slightly.

“This?  This is child’s play. Wait until you see me perform this winter.”

Why did he think I’d see him perform at all, never mind in winter? And if he fancied this _child’s play_ , why did he need me to practice? There was no end to this boy’s idiocy.

When I started to play again, it was with light and nimble fingers. Nadeshiko turned in front of me in a dizzying blur, fan outstretched. In the blood-red light of the setting sun, her face was radiant; both male and female, light and dark, love and hate.


	8. In the Rain

CHAPTER 8

 

雨中

In the Rain

 

 

 

 

The summer rainy season came on tidings of missing Japanese soldiers in Peking. Utau shook the newspaper open, like she had done every morning for the past month, and read the headline aloud.

" _Sudden clash between the Japanese and Chinese armies in the northern outskirts of Peking._   _July seven_ —Yaya, would you get off me?"

If there was one person more interested in the news than Utau, it was Yaya. Every morning she waited for the latest gory headline with bated breath and fearful eyes.

She wasn’t the only one. Since Father’s letter, I had been unusually on-edge about international headlines, keeping a hawk eye out for any disturbances west of Honshu. So far, there had been only minor scuffles like this one, whispers of  _this and that_ , as father would say: nothing of remark.

"Is there anything about Taiwan, Utan?" Yaya asked immediately, jostling elbows in her rush to peer over Utau’s shoulder. "There weren’t any deaths, were there? Just–"

"No word of Taiwan, just mainland conflict." Utau pushed Yaya off her knees, like a mother cat who was tired of her kitten mobbing for attention. "Yuiki,  _listen to me_ : that's a good thing. The more Taiwan stays out of headlines, the better. The last thing they need is attention. Especially  _now_.”  

Yaya slumped back into her seat, defeated. The mood was damp, both inside and out; rain thrummed down relentlessly outside, casting dancing green lights on the table. The sound of water rolling off the awning sounded like muffled marbles on tin. Inside, most girls chatted away over breakfast unconcernedly, as if oblivious to dark tidings. The primary concern reigning over the dining hall today seemed to be whether the rain would interfere with the festival that evening. Sāya was loudly explaining, within earshot, that her yukata  _could_ not get wet, as it was expensive material, you see. I could not have possibly been more bored off my arse.

Our end of the table was silent, withdrawn. Nadeshiko had not touched her food; she was gazing outside at the rainy lawn, face contemplative.

"Nadeshiko?" Amu said curiously, peering over at her. Yaya took Amu's thick tofu off her plate while she was distracted, whisking it efficiently into her mouth like a raccoon.

Nadeshiko's dark eyes flicked to Amu, with a tired smile. "Amu-chan."

Amu tilted her head.

"The hydrangeas are in full bloom outside. Come and see."

Amu moved over to peek over Nadeshiko's shoulder, and gasped. "Waaah… how pretty!"

Feeling the familiar cringe of annoyance, I deliberately took Nadeshiko's share of tofu off her plate with chopsticks and stared a hole in the back of my roommate's head.

"That's distasteful," Utau told me, without removing her eyes from the paper.

"Hm?" I asked, still staring at the green lights dancing on Nadeshiko's sleek hair.

"What you're doing," she said, grimly. I thought she was referring to the tofu, until— "Fujisaki-san doesn't belong to you, you know."

My hair fluffed up, indignantly. All week, the humidity had wreaking havoc on it, filling it with moisture like a cumulus cloud. Was Utau so imperceptive as to think that I was jealous over Nadeshiko? It was  _clearly_  Amu that I cherished.  

“Of course she’s not  _mine_ ,” I said, cutting my tofu up into edible pieces with my chopsticks with disgust. “Don’t group me in with the likes of you.”

Utau’s eyes flashed. She looked as if she had a retort, but thought better of it when she noticed Yaya staring at us with bright, intelligent eyes. Our friend's face in that moment reminded me uncannily of a macaque I had seen at Ueno zoo when I was younger. Perched cutely on a tree branch, the monkey had waited for an opportunity to strike with the most adorable of faces, before snatching a bag of peanuts from an unsuspecting boy’s hand.

I cleared my throat. “Is there anything else in there, Hoshina-san?”

“What, in this old rag?” Utau shook the limp newspaper.

“Yes.”

She listed the headlines of interest at top speed. “Admirals continue to crack down on free-market capitalism, far-flying airplane gets prototyped, something about an Orange Peel commission…”

“Orange peels?” Yaya’s ears perked up.

“My mistake— Peel commission. Rima?”

“What’s all this about far-flying aeroplanes?” I asked, leaning over with interest.

“The  _kamikaze-go, Mitsubishi Ki-15 Karigane J-BAAI—”_

“Good lord, woman,” I interrupted. “I asked for elaboration, not machine rubbish.”

“Ooh, are you talking about the Kamikaze plane?” Nadeshiko re-joined the conversation, evidently deeming us worthy of attention. “The one that flew to London in fifty hours?”

“No,” I said, attempting vainly to shut her out.

“Yeah, we are,” said Utau. “Didn’t know you were into planes, Fujisaki.”

“I’m not,” Nadeshiko turned her head, modestly. “I only remember because the Prince and Princess Chichibu got to fly in it…”

“Good  _night_!” I said in disgust, standing up. The table emitted a series of groans and protests, begging Nadeshiko not to launch into another lovelorn tirade about the beauty of the Imperial family.

“Alright, alright, I see how it is!” said Nadeshiko, also getting to her feet. “I’ll just tell Amu-chan about how beautiful the Emperor’s wife looked later, because she’s the only one who listens to me…”

“‘Listens _to me’…_ is that what you call it? When she falls asleep with her eyes open,” I observed. Amu’s ears went bright red.

“N-no, Nadeshiko, I do listen, honest! I just, you know, don’t keep up with that stuff…”

“The case rests,” Utau folded up the newspaper with resignation, as if she shouldered a burden beyond her capacity. Although the Hoshina company letters had slowed to a monthly hindrance, it never took much of a load off of Utau. If anything, the passing weeks seemed to try her doubly.  In the cool light of the morning monsoon, she looked very old.

Amu stacked up all our bowls from breakfast, one on top of the other. Content to let others do the work, I watched with mild interest.

“Rima, do you want to take these to the kitchens?” Amu asked, holding the leaning tower of Disgusting Rice Bowls out so that they wobbled precariously.

“Me?” I eyed them with distaste. “Whyever for?”

“You don’t want to?” Amu sounded innocent, but her voice carried a twinge of exasperation. “It’s your turn for kitchen duty, you know... Sanjō-sensei will give you an earful if she finds you skipping work.”  

I cursed under my breath. Nadeshiko made a  _hem hem_ noise of objection in her throat.  

“Very well,” I said, taking the bowls with some trepidation. “I shall… kitchen duty.”

I carried the teetering pile of bowls around the dining hall’s screen separator, to the kitchen, and deposited them amongst their multiplicitous siblings. Two other classmates—Manami and Wakana— were already there, jostling each other as they filled the basin with warm water. They gave little notice of me. I gave little notice of them. Amu reappeared behind me afterwards with the cups, lower lip gnawed in concentration.

“Amu-chan!” Manami said, whirling around and drying her hands on a dishtowel. Manami always wore her hair in two buns on either side of her head, glinting like glazed Viennese bread rolls. “Didn’t expect to see you here with little ol’ us. What gives?”  

“Dish duty,” said Amu, bending over to help them pick up the basin. I watched them all struggle in vain to pick it up, look of enjoyment on my face. Amu stared at me, which went ignored. As Amu and her other lame friends did the dishes, they chattered. I eavesdropped, contenting myself to dry the same dish over and over for ten minutes.

“What are you wearing for the festival?” Manami asked. Wakana launched into detail about her yukata and how boring it looked. I zoned out, hand around a soy sauce dish.

“… Do you think the Kouen students will be there? I’d be so nervous I’d die,” confessed Wakana. I heard blathers of  _Hotori-kun_ and  _so handsome_.

Tired, the soy sauce dish slid out of my hand and to the floor with a clatter. Abruptly, they stopped talking and looked at me.

I looked at Amu.

Amu looked at the soy sauce dish.

“… What about you, Mashiro-san?” Manami asked cautiously, as though I had subliminally asked them to drag me into their vapid discourse.

“What about me?” I said. I bent down to pick up the dish.

“Do you know anybody at Kouen?” Manami said, slowly, as though implying something.  

“Mashiro-san has always been very popular with boys,” Wakana observed, impartial. To my surprise, I found myself nervous and annoyed. I thought of Nadeshiko. Not Nagihiko— Nadeshiko. 

“I know the headmaster,” I said, remembering the incident in the forest. Amu looked at me, surprised. Manami couldn’t have been less interested, until I added, “He is rather  _young-looking_ , isn’t he?”

The two of them giggled and looked at each other. “ _Yes,_ ” Manami said, keenly. “Surely he can’t be married?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Wakana teased.

Manami threw a dishtowel at Wakana’s shoulder, huffing. “Why don’t  _you!_ ”

As it turned out, Manami and Wakana’s gossip proved to be useful. I knew of the headmaster’s past, but not his present. I learnt three facts:

One, he was, indeed, unmarried. Two, he was somehow related to a student called Hotori Tadase, who sounded about as interesting as a slice of bread. Thirdly, and most interesting of all, Manami and Wakana could not verify any connection to the Fujisakis. Was his friendship with Amakawa-san not common knowledge? Of course, Nagihiko  _could_  just be sneaking around again. Ho hum! Suppose Nagihiko was shagging the fellow? I hummed through class, attracting startled stares from everyone around me.

Classes ended at noontime, as they usually did on Saturdays. On fine days, we would often take to the outdoors, sit outside and chatter, take our socks and shoes off and put our feet in the river. But the rain was still coming down as we exited the building, dripping off the leaves and soaking my stockings up over the ankle. By the time we got inside, the dormitory hallway was crowded with wet shoes and the musty smell that only came from damp people at close quarters.  It was a chaotic whirlpool of girls, running room-to-room to borrow hairbrushes and pins and powder puffs, standing in hallways and overflowing from doorways. Many pairs of feet monopolized the bathrooms, all attempting to get closer to the big mirror on the wall. I edged my way around the chaos, ducking a hanging obi sash half-tied onto someone’s waist and missing Yamabuki Saya’s ferocious curler-lined head by millimetres. She looked like a triceratops.

 _Cripes!_ I shut the door to my room. The noise muffled to a quiet roar.

I had packed a single yukata with me at the start of spring term. It was squashed into the bottom corner of my suitcase and wrapped in several layers of rice paper. Several years old but worn sparingly, it was an alluring peachy-pink and dotted with stylized bobbins. I assumed Nadeshiko would be pleased, for once, to see me in the traditional clothes of my people. I was therefore surprised to step out from behind the screen and have her feather-gray eyebrows rise up in polite incredulity.

I frowned at her, pride wounded. Her eyes narrowed, staring at my feet.

“It’s a bit short in the ankle. You have it bound too tightly.”

“Surely you must be joking!” I said, exasperated. Was nothing I did perfect enough for this upper-class twit?

“I do not joke about such matters, Rima-chan.”

I forgot she had no sense of humour—or irony. Eyebrows furrowed and chin wrinkled, she glared at my raiment. “Is that the only yukata you brought with you?”

“Of course it is,” I replied, annoyed. “Why would I bring another?”

Gazing at the pattern, she reached a pale hand forward to finger the obijime cord tight around my waist. I tried to lean into her touch and away from it at once, and so only ended up hunching my torso like a noodle.

“… If you like, you can borrow one of mine?” she offered, ignoring my prior question and mysterious wiggling motion.

“Whyever for?” I said, suspiciously.

She sighed, hummed and hawed for a while.

“The one you’re wearing is inappropriate for the season,” she finally consented to explain to me, in a placating voice. “Peach in July is  _unheard_ of. I’ve always felt as if Rima-chan…”

“Oh, you’ve felt now, have you?” I said, never tiring of this little jape.

“I’ve always felt,” Nadeshiko ploughed on, “that Rima-chan looked the most beautiful in colder colours. Whites, and blues… cool colours would offset your pink skin well, wouldn’t it?”

My  _pink skin_? She was eyeing up my skin, now? Did she wish to eat it clean off my face? I put a hand on my cheek, and turned my gaze downwards in mild surprise. My mother adored pinks and baby yellows on me. My pull to black and icy lavenders and sharp blues was nothing more than a veneer, I fancied, to make myself look like even more of a glacier. I glanced back up at Nadeshiko. “There is no ulterior motive to this?”

“None,” she responded, a tinge offended, until guilt shadowed her face. “Well– a little.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Sometimes, when we were younger, you know, I’d… I’d look at you in the hallways, and imagine all the ways in which I’d…”

Flustered, I took a step back.  _WHAT?_

“In which I’d dress you up, you know, if I got the chance. I know it’s silly, and a little perverse, but I love clothes, you know, and there were a few I had in mind, and I’ve never had a roommate before, and  _Rima-chan, please, please?_ ” she begged, twisting her mouth into a little pout like a ripe plum on the branch.

“My God,” I swore, undoing the cord holding my obi in place, “It would take a crueller woman than I to continue to let you suffer so.”

Nadeshiko giggled a little at this, and I felt a thrill. Cracking the white-clay veneer of the Fujisaki mask was no mean feat, even for an accomplished wisecracker like myself.

She made short work of laying out her collection out on our beds, a dizzying array of colours: sunset oranges and bloodred crimson, golden yellows and tender bamboo-shoot greens. A deep indigo the colour of the night sky held stitched-on gleaming fireflies nestled in its folds, and an elaborate Heian court scene lay on a bright gold brocade, right down to a pair of little boys playing with a ball. Nadeshiko sifted past some of them quickly. On others, she could hardly resist a loving caress and a story, of which there seemed to be vast and many.

“I snuck out of practice in this one, once,” Nagihiko said, pointing to a serene heather-grey of silk, dragonflies skimming its surface. “I skinned my knee chasing a deer in Miyajima. Mother never found out.” 

I could hardly believe it until, to my delight, he turned over the silky outside. The inner corner hid a small brown bloodstain. I wrinkled my nose only for his benefit, and he laughed.

Of the dark blue one with fireflies, he told me of accompanying his father’s Kabuki troupe on a moon-viewing party. It took place aboard a long river boat, in the middle of a lake. “It sounds romantic, but actors are awful drunks,” Nadeshiko remarked. “They spent the entire time playing drinking games and telling lewd jokes. My ears felt  _violated_.”

“Lewd? I wish to hear one,” I said, intensely.

Nagihiko’s ears went bright scarlet. “Funny… I can’t remember any.”

“Funny,” I echoed. If women weren’t banned from the theatre, perhaps I would have liked to be a Kabuki actor, getting sodding drunk on river boats and violating people’s ears. I pointed at the bloody red cotton. “And what of this one?”

“Mine, for tonight.” Nadeshiko’s eyes glinted like a beady serpent’s; she pulled it out of its box to show me. Golden mountain lilies blossomed up its surface, stark pearly white against the dark red. There was no bleeding on the fabric; The pattern was clean, crisp.  _High-grade cotton_ , I thought. “You’ll watch, of course?” 

“Do I have a choice?” I said.

“No,” with a twinkling eye, “But you’ll like it.”

“If you say so,” I said, still touching Nadeshiko’s yukata. I had never seen her in such a vivid red before. Seeing her hold it up, I had to wonder why. It highlighted the often invisible colour in her cheeks, and made her hair look almost darker than it truly was.

She smiled her knowing smile at me, folding it back into its lacquer box. “Let me show you the ones I was thinking for you.”

“There’s  _more_  than this?” I said incredulously, as she held up a silky ivory embroidered in seashells to my neck. “Where did you get all these? Surely you can’t own  _all_  of them.”

Kimono were expensive, and often ran as high as a labourer’s yearly wage. Perhaps they were stolen.

Nadeshiko furrowed her brow, holding up a mousy blue next to the off-white under my pink face. “Some, bought. Others, our family is currently borrowing. It’s not uncommon for dance houses to pass kimono between them.”

“That cannot account for  _all_ of them.”

“Oh, definitely not,” she said, vaguely. “Stand up and turn around. I want to see how this one looks.”

“Am I no more than a dress-up doll to you?” I said, infuriated at her dodgy replies.

“Oh,  _goodness, no, Rima-chan,_ ” Nadeshiko said earnestly. “You are so much more than that! Hold your arms out.”

I held them out, watching her with a suspicious eye. I was still dissatisfied with her response. “Where else did you get all these, then?”

“Gifts,” she replied, evasively. “You know, from teachers and such… or awards for performances… and, well,  _you know_.”

I gave her a funny look. No, I didn’t know. “ ‘ _Awards for performances_ …’ Is that right?”

“From patrons,” she said, very fast.

“ _Patrons!_ ”

I could see a visible sheen of sweat on Nadeshiko’s neck, like spring dew on a snowdrop. “It’s not like that! It’s not as if…”

“Good God in  _heaven!_ ” I interrupted, unable to contain my vicious glee. “Mama was right all along—dancers are prostitutes!”

“Not so!” Nagihiko’s face flushed, scandalized. “I’ve given them nothing but my company— if you could get away with entertaining old geezers for expensive presents, I believe you’d do it more than I!”

This was undeniable, but I couldn’t help giving her an offended look. Her white hands locked around my waist, turning me to face the mirror.

“And anyways, why complain?” Her voice said right in my ear, and I jumped.  _Why did she always do that?_ “It means I have more pretty clothes to share with you, doesn’t it?”

I did not respond, only glowered. Nadeshiko was beautiful, and the idea that she got presents from vapid men irritated me beyond reason. It should be  _me!_ Getting presents, I meant. Not giving them to her. Besides, Nagihiko was a boy; wasn’t that somewhat deceptive?

“Isn’t that somewhat deceptive?” I hinted, but Nagihiko no longer seemed interested in pursuing the subject. Yukata hanging off my shoulders, he drew away from me to go look for an obi, humming a song under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the Nagasaki Wandering song. “What colour are you thinking?”

“White?”

“No,” he said immediately.

“Alright, then.” I drew my attention to my cuticle beds instead, picking at my hands with some impatience. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention— but must she be so clinical and  _thorough_? When Nadeshiko returned to the mirror, it was with a pale beige obi the colour of ripe wheat. Hints of gold thread winked at me from its crisscrossing fibres. I tried to contain my reaction, but perhaps my face was not as stoic as I would have fancied. Nadeshiko smiled at me knowingly, as if my face was full of Christmas glee.

“You shouldn’t feel awkward, you know. I insist you wear it. Think of it as compensation for putting up with me.”

I hardly felt awkward. Only dazed, like I was in a dream. Amu would have pushed it away amid protest that it was too good for the likes of her, but me? No. This was most  _certainly_ good enough for me. I allowed Nadeshiko talk me into holding the yukata closed while he tied it around my waist, gazing at my reflection with enamourment.

“How would you like it tied?” Nadeshiko leaned over my shoulder, joining me in my vanity project.

I thought about it, craning my head over my shoulder to look at the dangling gold ends in Nadeshiko’s hands. “I usually wear the butterfly knot.”

Nagihiko nodded back at me. “That will do nicely, I think.”

I wondered for a moment why he poised his arms so masculinely, before he answered my question with brute strength. Arms straining, Nagihiko pulled the ends together around my waist, less like a pretty girl dressing another and more like a man mooring a ship to a pier. I let out a small  _eep_. The look I gave him was no less than offended.

“What?” Nagihiko asked, placing a broad hand over my stomach, pulling us flush together.  _Eep!_  “Hold here, please.” With a laugh. “Kimono-dressing is no light woman’s work. It requires a man’s strength.”

“Does it, now?” My voice shook, a little.

“Most things of beauty require some level of sweat and tears,” he commented, as though he was composing a deep haiku out loud. He made me stand there while he tucked and pulled and adjusted. His hands seemed to dart everywhere. I fidgeted. When he turned me around to face the mirror again, I was finally relinquished with a gentle push.

It was a cold, solid blue-green, save for the wind chimes that blew on invisible gusts of wind near the hem. I reached down to brush the tops of my knees, not used to the grade of fabric against my skin.

“I like the colour,” I said in a demure voice, feeling obligated to pay a compliment.

“So do I,” said Nadeshiko. “It's celadon. Like the glazed pottery.”

I was almost sure he was going to say something soppy, and was grateful when he didn’t. “This is really alright, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “You do it credit—but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Oh no, please,” I fluttered, rolling my eyes and tucking a flyaway curl behind my face, “I do. It’s the least I deserve.”

Nadeshiko dressed herself in her red kimono. I sat down on the chair at the foot of my bed and prepared my face for makeup by rubbing lotion all over my face. I thought Nadeshiko wasn’t paying attention until I picked up a powder puff and caught her staring at me, looking curious. “What are you doing?”

 I brushed the puff in some powder. “Makeup?”

“May I?” She pointed at the powder tin. I handed it to her, too distracted by my own reflection in my tiny hand-mirror. She tilted her head at it in childish delight, and I was reminded of a jackdaw peering at a manmade curio.

“We use something like this for dancing,” she murmured, putting the tin back on the bed, “But it’s pure white. Yours is pink.”

“I buy it in Ginza,” I said, surprised at how normally I could talk about cosmetics with a boy. “The pink tinge is more natural, these days. It’s what actresses wear in the West.”

She watched, fascinated as I rouged my cheeks. With a prickle down my neck, I began to fancy myself hardly needing the colour. I lined my eyebrows thin and arching with a brown pencil, mimicking the pictures of girls on the cover of my books. Then it was lipstick, a pink-orange coral colour. Just when I thought Nadeshiko’s interest was waning, I clamped an eyelash-curler over my eyes.

She reacted as if I had just jabbed a hot poker in my own face. “ _Ah!_ What  _is_ that?!”

“Eyelash curler,” I said, switching eyes.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” She pressed a hand to her mouth.

“It’s only my eyelashes, you dolt,” I said unkindly, before feeling a bit sorry. “It only feels a bit warm, from the heat. But nobody burns your eyelids, not if they’re careful.”

Nadeshiko leaned close to inspect my eyelashes, which curled up to make my eyes look wide and astonished. There was something almost constituting envy in her voice. Her breath tickled my chin and neck. “Your eyelashes are so long.”

I stood stock-still, throat feeling as though I had swallowed an entire trout. “Do you want— want to try?” I asked, in my trout-voice.

Nadeshiko pointed to her eyes. “ _Me?_ But my eyelashes are much shorter than yours.”

“I can do it,” I lied, dismissively. “I’ve done this on loads of people before.”

I held the tongs over the oil lamp to heat them up again, and took a closer look at her face. She hadn’t been lying about her eyelashes. They were short and coarser than mine, and stuck straight out like a horse’s. Undeterred, I brushed her bangs off her eyebrows and mimed my hand over my own face. “Try to keep your eyes as open as you usually do. And  _don’t blink.”_

 I clamped the metal curlers around her eyelashes.

“This feels scary,” she whispered back, hands clenched on my arms.

I released the tongs, only to see that they didn’t curve as much as I would have liked. I tutted. “You think ghosts are romantic, but are afraid of eyelash curlers?”

In answer to my question, she whined. “Are you going to put those near my face again?”

I rolled my eyes, and moved to her second eye. Perhaps I moved too suddenly, because she gasped a bit in pain, jerking back. Two eyelashes came with it, and she clapped a hand to her face.

A sane person (Amu) might have gasped “ _Nadeshiko! Are you okay, my sweet_?” but I, with my slow reflexes, only stared as she clapped an eye to her face. “Did I burn you?”

“I–I don’t know!”

“Let me see.”

Nadeshiko’s hand didn’t budge, remaining glued to her left eye. I pulled at her wrist. “Let me look at it, you big baby.”

“It hurts,” said Nagihiko, unconvincingly, but let me peel his hand away from his face. His red-rimmed eye, glazed over with tears, had a little gap between hairs in the centre of his eyelid.

“You just moved back and ripped some eyelashes out, you oaf.” I opened the eyelash curler. Three short black hairs lay there, white roots visible.

It was as if I had shown him his own severed limbs. Nagihiko gasped as if at fallen comrades, and pressed his fingers onto the pad of the curler. The eyelashes stuck to his finger.

I sensed a meltdown. “Make a wish.”

“A wish?” He looked up at me, brown eyes wide and ignorant. I resisted the urge to kiss his eyeballs condescendingly.

“If your eyelash falls out, you’re supposed to blow it away and wish for something.” I explained, as though it was an obvious aspect of everyday life. My mother mentioned it to me as a child, when I’d find eyelashes stuck to my hand from rubbing my face. It may have been a family legend endemic only to Mashiros.

“Does it work if your roommate ripped them out of your face?” he said, with an almost Rima-like cadence.

“Does it matter?” I said, unimpressed at his mimicry. “Wishes aren’t real.”

His eyes locked on mine. I stared back. Softly, he pursed his pink lips and  _blew;_ the eyelash vanished from his fingertip, and the hair around my face stirred from the air. I felt thoroughly unsettled—flattered—a little guilty, as though there were a thousand people staring at me. To silence it, I forced his head back. His hand tightened on my arm.

“Even after everything that happened, you’re  _still_ going to curl my eyelashes?” he said, incredulous.

“Otherwise, your face will be asymmetrical,” I tried to reason.

Nagihiko closed his eyes, consenting to curling his eyelashes. He consented, too, to let me comb his hair back into a chignon at the back of his neck, and to put a pin with trailing white flowers just behind it. Just as I was attempting to cloy her into rouging her cheeks, there was a polite knock at the door, and a muffled  _thunk_.

The door swung open without prompting, Yaya, Amu, and Utau in its wake. I wondered what would have happened, had Nagihiko not been already seated in his yukata, padded and bound, leg crossed girlishly over the other. Visions of Yaya bursting in on Nagihiko half-undressed danced through my head. I wondered how he managed when he lived alone, before I existed to sound the alarm. 

I looked up, politely, only to make startling eye contact with Amu.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, sadly. “You got ready without me, Nadeshiko?”

I felt nothing but mutiny at this. To save myself, I hopped off the bed and picked up my geta sandals by the thong. Carefully, I tucked my coin-purse into the obi that Nagihiko had nearly strangled me with, regarding the two of them with cold eyes. “Hurry up.”

This turned Amu’s attention towards me. My heart tightened.

“Rima, you look beautiful!” she exclaimed, in the easygoing way she had. I fought back my shiver of pleasure and turned my head so that she couldn’t see me biting back a grin like a silly idiot. Much to my misfortune, I turned in the direction of Nadeshiko to do so. She beamed back at me, with pride.

“But doesn’t she?”


	9. Glimmer of Summer

CHAPTER 9

 

夏の煌めき

Glimmer of Summer

 

 

 

 

When I was young, I was not permitted to attend to the summer festivals that poured down the streets of Ginza. My mother would look up primly from her knitting; to the window, to my face. Muffled drums, the call of vendors and the high-pitched wailing of traditional song would rattle the windowpanes and echo softly through the air. 

“Emi-san can go get anything you’d like,” my mother would say.  _Emi-san_  was the hired girl.

I knit my lips together and nodded, downcast at my book. All the while, I stole sidelong glances through the curtains, hoping to glimpse anything: the pop of a firecracker, or a demon's mask. A few minutes later, I’d look up again. “Can’t I just—”

“ _No_ , Rima,” Mother would say, in a voice that indicated that I should not ask again. “Think of what might happen, should we lose you in the street.”

“But you shan’t,” I began. “If I bring Emi-san or grandmother with me…”

“You would shake them off in the crowd,” she said. “Scamper off to go eat takoyaki, and get caught by bandits, sold to a brothel in Yoshiwara, caught up in the Sumida River’s current and drown. You would never find proper burial, and we would despair.”

Takoyaki! I often wondered if she knew me at all. Every year, Ginza put on  _The Love Suicides at Amijima_  at a makeshift outdoor theater.  _The Love Suicides_ , contrary to its name, was a domestic rigmarole about a couple of hilariously unlikable weirdos and a background cast riddled with rational straight-men to offset their strange behaviour. Delightful! I wanted to go, more than anything else in the world. But the shadow of fear always loomed long over the Mashiro house, obscuring the sun.

Seiyo was my emancipation. Amu immediately drifted towards a fortune-telling booth, pulling Nadeshiko in her wake and begging. “You have to come with me, Nadeshiko! Otherwise they’ll think I’m desperate and single!”

“Where is their error in judgement?” Utau asked, walking in stride with us.

Nadeshiko took pity. “You really believe in this kind of thing, Amu-chan?”

“Well, that is to say…” Amu fumbled her words, backed into a wall. In an aloof mutter, “This stuff is all fake, probably, but isn’t it fun to do if you’re already here…?”

I had a sneaking suspicion that Nadeshiko put more in stock by fishwives’ fortune-telling than Amu did. She approached the corpulent fortune-teller with the air of someone who did this often. I remembered what Amakawa-sensei had said, about geisha being superstitious.

“Do not be afraid,” the fortune-teller announced, in a throaty vibrato; she reminded me of the elderly crones on radio shows and moving pictures, speaking in a voice made for projection. “I can read your fate through the passing stars, and see all of your destiny from the moment of your birth. My name is Saeki Nobuko, passing through this town for only one night.” 

“How much is it?” Nadeshiko asked, already putting down a five-yen banknote.

“Expensive,” muttered Utau. “Count me out.”

“Me, too,” I agreed, turning towards Utau. “Let’s go, I want to see the puppet theatre—”

I tried to leave, but Yaya’s arm locked tight around mine. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the fortune-teller’s charts. “No, Rima-tan,” she said, wowed. “You have to do it with me.”

 _“Really_ , Yaya?” I said, too late. She hovered around Nadeshiko excitedly.

“My birth date is the tenth day of the fifth lunar month,” Nadeshiko was saying.

“And the time?” Saeki Nobuko the fortune-teller asked, in what I perceived to be a rather pompous tone.

“Dawn,” she replied. “The first hour of sunrise… so, the rabbit?”

I exchanged a baffled look with Yaya.

“I’m giving the date using the traditional system, for ease,” she explained. The fortune-teller shook out a long list of calculations and filled in the table. “This particular method is called  _tōdō_. It combines the Chinese four pillars method with physiognomy…”

I fancied that she used the big words on purpose, to throw everybody off her scent. “So,  _you_  think this works, huh?” I commented.

Nadeshiko smiled at me, eyes luminous.  _“Hmmmmmmm?”_

I could see a graph of some kind under the fortune-teller’s brush, eight boxes revolving around a center ninth. With nothing but overwhelming joy in my heart, I heard the fortune-teller cluck her tongue.

“No good.”

Nadeshiko covered her mouth with her sleeve, daintily. I stuck my head as far out as it would go over Yaya’s shoulder, like a gargoyle on the roof of the Notre Dame, and repressed the large grin threatening to engulf my face.

“An ever-changing enigma,” the fortune-teller announced, with grave sobriety. “Like toxic mist, the woman born in the year of the water dog is a homewrecker.”

“How charming!” I exclaimed. Amu made a  _gack_  choking noise in her throat.

“I see a beautiful diplomat gifted in the arts; gentle, hating to step on toes, virtuous lover of peace and stability. Loyal to a fault, they will bend over backwards for their loved ones. They are vivid storytellers...”

Privately, I thought this made him sound more attractive than he truly was. I had always longed to marry a footstool. Toxic mist, however, was apt.

"... But to the innermost people let into their confidence, they are cruel, guarded, difficult to know. Cynical. Master manipulators, vixens of the night, coy and teasing. They will chew you up and spit you out.” The fortune-teller sounded vehement, as though her family had been slaughtered by a pack of water dogs. The people, not the animals. 

“That’s not true!” Amu began, with defensiveness, as though she had been personally attacked. “It is true that Nadeshiko is a little mysterious, but she’s a good friend who does her best!”

 “Amu-chan…” Nadeshiko false-choked, eyes filling with false tears.

“You have a busy year ahead of you,” the fortune-teller interrupted their moment, round glasses flashing. “You will strengthen the bonds of your social circle, and a career opportunity will show itself by intercession of relatives. A fair man from across the ocean will make you an extramarital offer by the time the snow has thawed.”

“An _extramarital officer?”_ Amu spluttered, while Yaya cackled with glee.

“What kind of madman foreigner would voluntarily attempt to buy Nadeshiko-san?” I pondered out loud.  

“Quite the eccentric, no doubt!” said Nadeshiko, taking my joke in stride. Our group broke out into a fit of titters.

As we sniggered, I could see the fortune-teller rotate the chart suddenly, and with concern. It reminded me of Mother, when she saw a broken string of silk in a long sheet on the looms. Unconsciously, I took a step closer, worried. 

“What is it?” I said, in my soft voice.

Her black eyes bored into Nadeshiko’s, curt. “You will not live to see your twentieth year.”

The villagers chattered around us alongside the distant _thud-thud_ of the matsuri drums, far too close to my ears. Amu froze. I slunk forward, relinquishing Yaya’s arm, transfixed.  

“ _You will die in a land far from your home, with blood in your mouth,_ ” she rasped, the sing-song voice of prophecy, shaking claw pointing to an upper-right square. Two stars were marked in black. “Your parents have made enemies. The sky will rain metal, and you will drown in the earth’s embrace.”

Had I less respect for Nadeshiko, I would have snidely remarked that this sounded more fairy-story than fortune. It took all my self-control not to laugh off melodramatic death predictions at the hands of a corpulent old bat.

“My parents?” said Nadeshiko, timidly, but I did not see any fear in her face; only mere interest, as though she was watching a stranger’s fortune. “I see.”

“I recommend you to marry early,” said Saeki Nobuko, briskly, “To avoid this terrible fate. A reckless woman is a buoy, adrift in the ocean.”

“The man with the extramarital offer, perhaps?” she joked, eyes twinkling through glazed clay skin. Nobody responded. My shoulders eased only just. Surely I was not the only one who thought this all rubbish.

“Thank you very much, Aunty.”

White hands resting at her sides, she bowed forward, gently, like a willow-tree bending its boughs under the weight of snow.

“Excuse me, Yaya,” I said brightly, elbowing my way around her.

“Hey, Rima-tan!” she whined. “I wanted to be next! You don’t even believe in this stuff!”

“Kindly do mine next.” I smoothed the front of my borrowed kimono, prettily. “I should very much like to know what sort of unlucky men I am enslaving.”

I knew for certain that Amu must be making a very exasperated face as I gave the fortune-teller money from my purse. “I was born the sixth of February, in the eleventh year of Emperor Taisho.”

“How fitting,” Nadeshiko observed, “To be born as the icy winter wanes.”

“How fitting,” I shot back, “To be born when bloodsucking insects breed and multiply.”

Though my kanji left much to be desired, I could read the upside-down characters for _metal_ and _rooster_ , the animal of my birth year, which Saeki had marked down on a fresh chart. The New Year had come late that winter.

“The time?” the fortune-teller prompted. I felt as though she had several nasty premonitions from me without it; unlike with Nadeshiko, she looked rather disapproving.

I had to pause to remember, peering at my own nail beds. My mother did not speak of my birth often. “The afternoon,” I said finally, without conviction. “She missed tea-time.”

The fortune-teller stared at me, unimpressed. “Which is?”

“Half past four o’clock in the evening.” I recalled Nagihiko’s brass-faced clock with its mysterious symbols, slowly. “The hour of the… the monkey.”

The fortune-teller seemed to expect this, for she started speaking at once, with a hearty sniff. “The metal rooster, born under yin wood. An elegant girl, no doubt, pretty and soft-spoken…”

“Yes,” I replied, matter-of-factly.

“… Difficult to get rid of, stubborn, like weeds choking a garden. Greedy and clinging, smothering mothers, they rely on others to prop them up, to lift them towards the sun. They crave attention, and the material lifestyle.”

“Oh,” I said.

“They can be insecure, but not you, I’m afraid.” With dislike. “You have an acute sense of your self-worth that rises from within. With your competitive acumen, you will use it to trigger a bidding war amongst suitors. For a girl of low birth, your bride-price will be an unprecedented number. Your marriage will bring wealth to both your parents, and accomplishments to your children.”

“Inaccurate,” I said, coolly. Were they here to hear it, my family would rejoice for what sounded like the end to financial strains. Yet how _did_ Saeki Nobuko know that I had a bride-price, rather than a dowry? “My family is in business, not peasantry.”

Saeki Nobuko raised her voice over me. “Low in circumstance, the poorest of situations, no name, no title. But yin wood, the flower, endures.”

My frown deepened.

“It is born in dirt and rises towards the light of the sun, bearing countless trials with every passing season. But so long as its roots remain in the earth, and the rain continues to fall…”

“… It will someday bloom.” Nadeshiko’s voice chimed over my shoulder. I twisted around to stare. She smiled back at me, prettily.

“It’s beautiful,” said Amu, easily touched. “And true for all of us, isn’t it?”

“I think it a load of waffle.” That was me. I was still remembering the metal rain.

Yaya spoke in a deep, tremulous voice. “Such sharp thorns on such a blooming rose, Rima-chan!”

I held my fan in front of my face, demurely. “To keep bugs away.”

“I could be wrong,” Nagihiko piped up, “But I believe rose prickles are to stop larger animals from eating the flower.”

“You are wrong,” I said. “It is to keep bugs away.”

Nagihiko exchanged a glance with Amu. “Um, alright. Shall Yaya…?”

As the fortune-teller robbed us of our money, the sun sputtered to its end on the eastern horizon. As twilight fell, shopkeepers began lighting the little lanterns strung across their booths and hanging from shop awnings. Sundown was our sign. With reluctance, we made our way back to the pavilion where Sanjō was directing students every which way, like the military dictator she was born to be.

“You three!” she barked, immediately putting a taloned hand on Yaya’s shoulder. “This way. You are _late._ ”

From the choir, Utau jerked her head at us, a scoffing _I told you so._ Amu and Yaya shot me a miserable look over their shoulders as I ducked and scuttled away to the koto section, finding this all a terrible bore and hoping it would be over soon. As I squashed my feet under my rear, Yamabuki-san on my left whacked me with the handle of her koto. “Be careful, you oaf!”

“Why bother to tread lightly around an ox?” I said, being friendly and sociable.

Yamabuki’s eyes were framed with long black lashes, permanently narrowed in a sneer. She always drew her eyebrows on too high, making her look perpetually shocked. “Don’t get so uppity,” she said, eyebrows agog, “Just because you happen to be friends with Fujisaki and Hinamori-san. When she sees how well I pluck the strings, our eyes will meet across the stage, and she will surely drop you in an instant, like moldy rice…!”

“Who?” I asked, bemused.

“What?”

“Which one?” I repeated. “You said two names.”

She opened her mouth, and then shut it, not knowing whose arse to kiss first.

“Fujisaki-senpai would not do such a thing,” a timid voice spoke behind me. “She and Hinamori-sempai are kind.”

It was the first koto in our section, a girl younger than us. Something about her straight, shiny hair and very large forehead spurred a memory, but I could not pinpoint it.

“Far too kind for the likes of Mashiro-san, with all her airs!” Yamabuki was brought back to life on the fuel of dissidence. “But then again, Hinamori-san has always liked her projects. It is why she remains at the bottom, while I, Yamabuki Sāya, continue to be a ray of sunlight in this abominable prison of a school…” 

“You’re the girl from before,” I told the timid voice, recalling Nadeshiko’s father’s fan who had gone to see his show in Ginza.

“Hatanaka-san,” she said, at the same time I said “Haganaki.”

“Oh,” she added after me, glumly. “Yes. Let’s all do our best today, for the dancers and festival-goers.”

“Alright,” I said, oblivious to work ethic bolsters. Yamabuki-san did not take kindly to being told to do her best.

“You have a lot of gall, for a first-year girl!” she huffily repositioned her koto. “It should have been me or Mashiro-san in your place—”

“Please do not name-drop me,” I said. “I don’t know you.”

“—and I have a mind to believe that Sanjō-sensei only gave you the position because your father was rich enough to pay for lessons, or because she feels _sorry_ for you.”

“Sanjō-sensei doesn’t feel anything,” I said, from my vantage point in the peanut gallery. “Her bosoms are made of metal, and absorb all the shock impact.”

Marimo shot me a shy look of gratefulness. I raised my eyebrows, not intending to defend Hatanaka in the slightest. Before Yamabuki could retort, a hush fell over the small makeshift stage. Sanjō made a furious hand gesture from behind a curtain. Hatanaka, seeing it, made a sharp _twing_ on her koto, signalling the rest of us.

I was proud of Yaya and Amu more than I was of Nadeshiko, if truth be told, because I knew that such things came naturally to Nadeshiko. Indeed, there was a rather empty, dull look in her eyes through her smile as she wove in and out of the dancers, as though she could do this in her sleep. I studied her face curiously in between koto notes, what little I could glimpse. She was smiling, but her chin was moving ever-so-slightly on a rhythm off from everyone else’s. _She was rehearsing another dance in her head simultaneously._

Yaya’s face was alight with joy. Hands aloft; her eyes passed mine, and I raised my eyebrows in a snooty impression of Yamabuki next to me. Her grin widened before she turned again, her back to me.

When the simple rotation finished, there was uproarious applause. “More!” a voice called. This was expected, of course, because every matsuri worth its salt had music enough to fill the entire night. We obediently started a second time, from the top. My eyes moved from person to person, bored and seeking stimulation.

Hatanaka-san looked more in her element than Yaya did. Where I found the koto strenuous, she handled it like a friend she could never tire of speaking to. She was no less than thrilled to be playing a second repetition. Her eyes were on the dancer’s feet, but Nadeshiko’s most of all; but this made sense, I thought to myself, with some humour, because Yaya had jumped off-step once at the beginning, and had caused Hatanaka to be a beat late. There was something steady about Nadeshiko, for those who didn’t know her, comfort in her consistency and competence.

The fourth applause was smattered, and more than enough for me. Placing my koto in the rest position, my entire row shuffled back slightly on our knees. The four bon-odori dancers dispersed in a row, bowed, and took several steps back to seat themselves further up the stage— all except Nadeshiko.

The last reverberating strings of Hatanaka’s koto faded into the lone sound of a single drum, which continued to patter out a steady rhythm. Nadeshiko was alone. An anticipatory prickle began at the back of my neck. _Ah!_ So this was the performance Nagihiko had been talking about. The one he was so sure I would like.

She turned to face the world with the rotating, precise grace that only a buyo dancer could have, opening the wooden wings of her fan away from her body slat by slat. Two chords sounded from Hatanaka’s koto, sharp and tanging in the still air. In confluence, the music was the characteristically bare, eerie. I thought of lonely mountain passes, or wide expanses of desolate moors.

The fan cast a shadow over her glinting eyes. She gazed out into a point beyond all of us, with the air of a sailor’s wife watching the sea. Her wrist lost its strength, and her hands came to life, like rock turned to water.

The fan was a single leaf falling from a tree. It grew to a whooshing gale that picked up Nadeshiko’s dangling sleeve in its wake, and then the safety of a sliding door, lovingly closing in front of her face. I watched, mesmerized. The fan slipped behind her back as she turned, sleeve covering her mouth, concealing a secret. Her eyes slid to the side, as though she was meeting a secret lover. She took one, two, three tentative steps towards my side of the stage. 

Hatanaka looked elated, and although I saw her fingers pluck the koto strings with precision, her eyes were full of Nadeshiko. I felt rather embarrassed looking at all.

“Why is she even _looking at you?_ ” Yamabuki hissed in my ear, with vitriol. I turned my attention back to Nadeshiko’s face too late, only to see the tendons of her neck and the grey shadow of her jaw. She swung back around, fan outstretched mere feet from me— in a quick, fluid movement, she tossed the fan from one hand to the other in an arc over her shining head.

The audience barely contained their thrilled gasp; a few of the savvier observers applauded. Evidently, this was a show of technical skill. I leaned forward ever-so-slightly, sucked in by flashy acrobatics. I believe the entire stage held a collective breath as she turned the edge of it from hand to hand, waiting for it to happen again.

She used the fan to shield her eyes once more as she gazed out upon the audience. It was so _self-aware_ when Nadeshiko did it. She was wearing a faint smirk now, alien on the mask. I felt small, and deeply grateful she was not looking my way. As she extended her fan forward to flutter down in front of the audience, I saw her right hand slip behind her back, imperiously.

Amu, seated just behind her trailing hand, took the folding fan from her obi and proffered it forward. _Two?_ She brought them both out to view, mirroring each other, like sisters; they both fell from the same tree before meeting again, flush to each other. She flipped one in front of the other, now with a jaunty little smirk indeed, flipped one over the other mid-air, falling perfectly into her waiting hand. The audience _ohhhed_ , and there was a few claps.

Together, the fans were back to being falling leaves; they fell discordantly, Nadeshiko twirling them both on her index fingers. Her kimono glowed bloody under the red lantern-light, and the shadows made her look menacing. I was frightened, and the slightest bit taken.

She flipped one fan back over the other again, and then the other— turned, and then threw her first fan in a spin up towards the overhead lanterns, catching it with the other fan that lay flat. I had never seen Japanese dance move quite so fast before. Like before, in the dormitory, she was a moving picture, fluid, taking the boldest and mannish steps I had ever seen her take outside my company. How _dare_ she?

I grew to regard the two fans as extensions of her hands, like the rippling fins of a betta fish moving fluidly with every exhale of the water’s current. They swayed every which way, like the reeds at the bottom of a riverbed, like the breathing of a great beast. So much that it surprised me when she carelessly tossed it back behind her. Her wild movements stopped, as though she had been caught.

I would later learn that in this part of the kabuki play, the character Nadeshiko was dancing sees her audience of samurai retainers fall asleep under the influence of drugged wine and realizes that it is safe to reveal her true self. But at the time, I only saw Nagihiko’s face turn over Nadeshiko’s sloping shoulder, like the sun rising over the mountains in an ugly grimace, eyes red-rimmed and full of hatred. I felt a sick thrill, and checked the faces of everyone around me, paranoid that anybody would notice. They did not. Of course they wouldn’t.

He flicked the fan away from his face, as though a bothersome fly. If I thought some of his movements mannish before, he was most certainly a man, now; he strode downstage like a calculating villain, tail-end of his kimono slithering like scales on the floor, and my heart fluttered to the beat of the drum. If Nagihiko’s secret was safe, _surely_ there was no harm in indulging in a bit of my own dramatic irony. It was strangely exhilarating, to see Nagihiko show an emotion that was not placidity.

The drums stopped. Hatanaka’s koto screamed hollowly against the silence. Nagihiko’s shoulder joint cracked audibly, fan flung away from his body like a warrior’s sword. Several classmates sitting on the edges of the stage who looked rather horrified. Had I not known what Nagihiko was like out of the public eye, I might have been taken aback, too. As it was, I was only surprised that Nagihiko— secretive, reclusive as he was— chose to air this part of himself to everybody, hidden in plain sight.

His lips pressed together, cold and furious. He swept towards my end of the stage, soft-footed. It was the first time I noticed the silk pattern in the weave of his kimono— alternating diagonal triangles, glimmering under the light. Reptile scales, hidden under the floral embroidery.

His fan was raised as though to slap his invisible enemy. Like a fool, I picked that moment to lock eyes with him: wide, brown, still brimming with brutal animosity. Knowing full well he was trying to frighten me, I clutched my koto and maintained eye contact. Was he succeeding? My heart pounded like he was, and I had the violent itch to stagger to my feet and stamp him out tooth and nail, as though he was a spider in the bathtub and not my arrogant classmate inwardly having a laugh.

My lip curled. His teeth bared, and for a minute, we were directly opposite each other; a snake that was and was not a woman and an invisible pinprick, separated and united by a fourth wall of observation.

The koto’s notes puttered off, and he dragged himself with a weary grace back to centre stage in a way I had only seen when he woke up tired in the mornings. He seemed to compose himself, settling back on his knees, fans poised. The koto’s notes stretched out to a tremble, before stopping.

Silence. Yamabuki Sāya looked aghast. Hatanaka, enamored. Similar expressions were mirrored around the edge of the stage. I realized I was still clutching the neck of my koto nervously, and relinquished it.

The applause began slow, unsure. It grew to an overwhelming roar.

“Nadeshiko, that was amazing!” Amu gushed afterwards, face alight.

Yaya made a murmur of agreement. “You looked like an ogre.”

“Apt,” said Nadeshiko, smiling. “I was dancing as one.”

“ _Eehh?!”_ Amu squawked.

 As we walked, Nadeshiko leant forward eagerly, so that we could all hear her. “The character is a princess named Sarashina,” she explained, “Who lures a young nobleman into drinking with her during an autumn foliage-viewing. He convinces her to dance for him, but when he and his courtiers fall asleep, she reveals herself to be the ogre of the mountain pass and comes close to killing them. It is an unusual role, most agree, in that one must alternate the demure movements of a woman with the male, aggressive stance of a monster...”

“Does one, now!” I said, with fervent interest. “I suppose art imitates life.”

Nagihiko’s eyes were dark and intense, and I often got the impression that they were staring right through me. I raised my eyebrows back, relishing in the shared secret.

“Does Rima-chan fancy me so violent? How hurtful!”

“I liked it,” I said, bemused, “There is no need to be so hysterical.”

She hit me, a playful sock to the arm that hit like a hundred bricks and rang of panic. Stoic in my pain, my arms went limp as noodles.

“Nadeshiko, don't hit her!” Amu exclaimed, exasperated. “She’s only trying to tell you her true feelings from the heart, isn’t she…?”

“Yes, Nadeshiko,” I nickered. “My true feelings.”

“Rima has higher standards than the rest of us,” Amu explained, plaintive. “So if she says she liked it, it must have been really good!”

I caught myself half-nod, before becoming cross with myself. Back when we were younger, Amu would often force us into situations in which Nadeshiko and I were forced to interact and then attempt a balancing act, seeking out things we had in common. She failed in every regard, but now, to her delight, it seemed that she had found ways to get us to triumphantly reach concord.

“I mean to say, I am not nearly so prideful as to not admit when somebody has done a right job of it,” I said, stiffly. “I liked it, and I shall say nothing more on the matter.”

“You flatter me,” said Nadeshiko, softly. “In saying so. I’m happy.”

I fell into an embarrassed silence. The _crunch crunch_ of our sandals on the earth was an ephemeral sound, punctuated quickly by Yaya’s piercing voice, saving me. “A tanabata tree! Look!”

I followed her finger to the towering bamboo plant, already tied with endless bunches of paper. A little boy was carefully tying a slip of paper to one of the highest branches of the bush, held up in his father’s arms. I recognized three Seiyo academy students, Hatanaka among them. Her friend was a bright red, and it sounded as though she was getting egged on.

I zig-zagged closer to an adjacent hydrangea bush, as though I meant to admire the flowers. Their conversation drifted over to me on the hot summer air, clear as crystal.

“… It’s still technically tanabata, you know? The festival of lovers. If you write it down, Orihime and Hikoboshi will surely hear your prayers, and make Souma-kun notice you. After all, they’re in the same situation, aren’t they? They can only meet under these specific circumstances…”

“What are you wishing for, then?” Hatanaka’s voice.

“Better sewing,” came the response from Sentimental Sentinel, glumly. “My stitches are all crooked and my parents aren’t real pleased with me after the letter they got from the teacher last autumn… What about you, Marimo-chan? You haven’t filled out your slip.”

Marimo mumbled. I moved closer around the edge of the hydrangea bush, and pretended to be inspecting the blue-and-pink mottled colouration a little more closely. _Marimo?_ In my mind, those fuzzy balls of moss one finds in freshwater lakes rose to the surface of my mind. I imagined Marimo’s huge forehead rolling along the bottom of a lake, hair swishing every which way in the currents.

“What are you looking at over here, Rim—AH,” Amu cried out, as I stepped on her foot. Hatanaka Marimo and both her doltish friends turned to us, surprised.

“Mashiro and Hinamori-senpai!” Hatanaka said, kindly, and bowed— overly-formal, and just right, in my opinion.

Sentimental Sentinel hissed, _“You_ know _them?_ ” Sometimes I forgot that Amu was a bit of a Florence Nightingale celebrity healer, and that everybody knew her name. 

“Hi,” said Amu, clearly uncomfortable.

“I liked your O-bon performance,” said Hatanaka, politely. There was no fanatic fervor in it, but it was meant nonetheless.

“Thanks…” Amu mumbled, embarrassedly. “Um, you did well, too. I guess.”

I chose to stay silent, but it was me that Marimo turned to, tentatively. “Mashiro-senpai, um, I know you’re busy with your friends, and all… but I have to go on for choral in a few minutes, and I was wondering if I could ask your advice on something?”

Amu turned to stare at me. So did Yaya and Nadeshiko, who were over by the tanabata tree, fussing with their own little slips of paper.

“I’m not an Agony Aunt–” I began, huffily.

Amu shoved me forward, hurriedly. “We’ll wait up for you at the goldfish booth, O.K., Rima?”

I looked helplessly ahead as my friends skipped into the distance, hooting and hollering. The two of us stood in front of the sky-high bamboo plant, muffled drums in the background. The stars twinkled. Marimo played with a strand of her stick-straight hair, looking at the ground. I stared at my own cuticles, picking at a hangnail.

“Um…” Hatanaka began, nervously. “I don’t mean to be so forward, but…”

Silence was my territory; I would let her struggle if she wished.

“I know this is very rude, and I don’t mean to imply anything, but, in regards to you and Fujisaki-senpai…”

It suddenly occurred to me that Hatanaka-san might be attempting to guess the very secret that I was supposed to keep. My face hardened even further, stoic, stubborn. She would get nothing from me.

“Are you… are the two of you lovers?”

A cicada screamed, and a mosquito buzzed right by my ear. I tried to slap it, and hit myself in the head. “Huh?” I said, stupidly.

“I know, I know,” said Hatanaka, miserably. “I know the two of you are girls, but you know, I-I had to ask… I hear that some girls… well, Nadeshiko especially…” Marimo’s ears went bright red. “I wasn’t really sure, but the two of you are so close, and she speaks so _highly_ of you!”

Was Hatanaka trying to make fun of me? I jerked my chin up, arrogantly. “No,” I said. 

“Oh,” said Hatanaka, struggling to make something of my laconic response. “In that case… well… you see, I kind of admire her a lot. I never gave much thought to Fujisaki-senpai before, I suppose… not as much as other people… I mean, she is my upperclassmen, and she’s very beautiful. I never thought much more than that. But when I saw her dance, it surprised me.” Her eyes widened. “She’s so… _mysterious_ at Seiyo, but when she dances, I feel as though I can understand her feeling, exactly. Her body is a type of music, in itself.”

I did not know why I was listening to this blather so closely.

“In fact, it made me really want to work hard at being a musician so much more. I was hoping you knew a way to have my feelings reach her?”

I pretended to think about it. “Say them,” I suggested. 

Marimo paled. “I tried! You saw me, Mashiro-senpai!”

I did not remember this.

“I congratulated her, and tried my best to tell her how much I admire her family’s work. But somehow, it never comes out right, and she never acknowledges anyone seriously. I’m not used to saying my feelings so much, so I don’t think talking is going to work at all… could it be…” she looked down at her tanabata slip, and back at me, delighted. “Of _course_! I should write a letter, shouldn’t I? If it’s so formal as a letter, she’ll _have_ to understand me. You’re good at this, you know, Mashiro-senpai? Thank you!”

I stared at her, as though she had pronounced me Royal President of the Duck Committee. Finally, I managed, “Much obliged.”

With love, she smoothed out her slip, and began writing in looping syllables. Shyly, she did not stop me from looking over her shoulder. _I wish my feelings will reach Fujisaki-senpai!_

There was something about the wholesome way she went about it that made me feel like a nasty, world-hardened person. While I was here, I might as well ask Orihime and Hikoboshi myself for something— although I was not the superstitious type, there was something inspiring about Marimo’s overarching piousness that made me believe it would come true if I put my wish to ink. 

I thought of Nadeshiko— of the Nadeshiko that Hatanaka must see, the laughing sylph with a song in her heart, a skip in her step and a story in her heart. I thought of the Nagihiko I knew; the sulky, stubborn boy, reptilian and rash. I looked up at the bamboo, and saw the closest slip of paper at eye-level. In the earnest kanji of a young man’s hand: _Hikoboshi-sama, bring me a wife as radiant as a goddess!_ I stifled a snort. Hikoboshi’s name was spelled with the same _hiko_ as Nagihiko’s, and the _hoshi_ of Utau’s surname. _Male star._ No identity: just sex.

I thought my father, and his letter. I thought of the headlines, and Yaya, and the island of Taiwan.

 _Peace_ , I wrote. I meant it. 

* * *

“There you are!” Amu said, as Yaya tried and failed for the umpteenth time to scoop one of the goldfish. “What did that girl want?”

Yaya, net splashing noisily in the water, did not see the irony in teasing me. “Has your fanclub expanded, Rima-tan? Do girls want to confess to you as well?”

I was not skilled at lying on the spot, and my eyes unconsciously drifted to Nadeshiko’s aristocratic profile, reflected an eerie blue from the light of the water. “It was… koto… stuff.”

“ ‘ _Koto stuff?_ ’ ” Amu echoed, a little suspicious. “Isn’t she really good, though?”

Amu was normally not so quick to catch me in a fib. As I cast around for a backup, perhaps the gods were smiling on me after all. An excuse manifested itself in Yamabuki Sāya, sauntering by, flanked by her cronies.

“Yamabuki said some nasty things to her in the koto section,” I said, without feeling. “Money can’t buy class. I told her as much.”

“Oh, I thought I saw that,” Amu sighed, giving Yamabuki’s retreating back a bit of an exasperated look. “It was really nice of you to comfort her, though. Yamabuki Sāya used to intimidate me, too, before I realized that her… how do they say it? Bark is worse than her bite.”

“That may be so, but I still do not care to have her teeth in my neck,” I said, peering over to watch the colourful goldfish twist through the water, like glittering orange coins. “Yaya, even if you catch one, how will you take it home with you on the train?”

“In a milk bottle,” suggested Yaya, making another vain swipe.

“Catch it, and set it free,” Nadeshiko suggested. “A goldfish may remain beautiful in captivity, but in a river, it may one day become a fearsome dragon.” 

“Is this a metaphor, or are you just that delusional?” I asked, caustic.

Nadeshiko gave me a soft smile, and, with a jolt, I realized it was slightly mournful, pained. Did she know Hatanaka’s feelings? Was that why she smiled so sadly?

I was interrupted by a piercing shriek. “ _I got it!_ ”

Yaya held her net aloft; a golden fish flopped in it, splashing water onto my nose.

“Oh, well _done_!” the shopkeeper said, clapping his hands. “That will be… two thousand yen in total!”

Goldfish swimming in a cup, Yaya’s savings depleted in their entirety, I took pity on her and paid for her chilled noodles. We all sat on the town wall and slurped loudly, legs swinging— all except Nadeshiko, who somehow managed to absorb the noodles via osmosis. I watched two little boys chase each other in oni masks with amusement, while some older boys strode past the booths, chatting idly.

Amu suddenly sat up, cheeks red. “Hey… a-aren’t those guys from Kouen?”

“Wha?” Yaya said, noodles falling out of her mouth.

“You know, from the boy’s school, the next town over!” Amu cast her eyes all about herself, suddenly self-conscious. That was nothing on Nadeshiko, who hopped off the fence like a twirling maple seed, fan open and in front of her face. “Oh,” she said, more high-pitched and breathy than usual, “I just remembered, I dropped my purse somewhere earlier.”

“Don’t _look_ at them, Yaya, they’ll see you!” Amu whispered loudly, flustered.

“Hi!” Yaya said, waving.

I slunk off the wall like a kicked cat, leaving my bowl. “I’ll help you look for it,” I told Nadeshiko, glad of an excuse to get out of socializing with Neanderthals. “I think it was back at the goldfish booth.”

We did not linger long enough to see whether the Kouen boys made first contact. Nadeshiko turned to cut between a takoyaki booth and an advertisement for a local business, and I followed without thinking.

Between the slats of wood and canvas, I caught her sleeve in the darkness. “What was _that_ all about?”

“I know them,” said Nagihiko, breathing audibly. His voice was timbrous again, reverberating in the small space. “We’re friends.”

“Do they know?”

“One does,” he admitted. “The others don’t. I decided against letting the others know in such a context. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“A safe move,” I said noncommittally, inching around him. Our obis rubbed against each other, cotton twill on silk. “But you should have known there was a chance you would see them, in coming out here in the first place.”

“I know.” He turned in tight circles, red dim and glimmering in the low light. I wondered if this goldfish would ever make it up the river to become anything, never mind a dragon. “But Mother thinks nobody knows me as a man. How could I say no?” He grabbed my shoulders, eyes wild, fierce. “I won’t cloister myself like a nun out of fear that something _might_ happen! I have a right to enjoy myself as much as any other.”

I stared up at him, trying, again, to see what Hatanaka must see. It did not work with his jaw set mannishly and shoulders up; all I saw was a serpent with a thorn in its side, thrashing on itself. I did not let go as quickly as I should have. “Calm yourself,” I told him, evenly. “Nobody saw a thing. And anyway, nobody would think you a nasty boy who breaks-and-enters with a waist like that.”

It was difficult to see in the darkness, but the mask might have smiled. “Even so, I can’t hide from everybody all evening.”

I squared my shoulders, letting go of his hands to brush a loose curl off my shoulder. “You won’t have to.” Simply. “You are with me.”

He tilted his head. “Even more so, then.”

It was _warm_ in here. I suddenly did not know what to do with my hands; I fixed my hair further, and felt like Amu spotting a bloody Kouen boy.

“Your mother was so focused on making you appealing to creepy old grandfathers that she never bothered to teach you anything a real woman learns.” My voice had transparent disgust; I could not help it, every time I was faced with the luxury of Nagihiko’s upbringing. “Any gentleman worth his salt can read the atmosphere and see a woman whose heart is closed. Watch me.”

I squared my shoulders, raised my chin haughtily, and let my eyebrows fall into their natural rest position. I regarded Nagihiko coldly, arms crossed.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked, with a smile.

“An unapproachable woman,” I replied, without inflection. “Keep watching.”

I squeezed back out from between the booths, and strode unblinkingly towards the takoyaki stand, where the tangles of octopus’ legs were being rolled in sticky batter. I stared at a boy perhaps a few years older than the two of us, thinking murder. “Excuse me.”

The boy only caught a glance of my face, before looking away in a hurry. “Sorry, go ahead.”

Men could not abide by a frozen-looking woman, I had learnt very quickly. They liked to look at pretty faces that were open to their fantasies; they wanted blank slates, like Nadeshiko, an ornamentation that would laugh without prompt.

My face melted, and I smiled, voice syrup. “Thank you.”

“You look awfully young to…”

I held up a hand, and stopped the conversation. I returned to Nagihiko’s hidey-hole between the stalls with a skewer in my hand, and proffered the end with nothing short of smugness. “Any comments?”

“Many,” he said, amused. “That poor man fell for you in an instant, and you let him crack his head open on the rocks below.”

I expected him to take an octopus ball off the end with his fingers, but he leant over and bit it off with his mouth, canines sharp, grinning.

“ _Nagihiko_!” I said, a little loudly. The takoyaki maker froze, confused. Nagihiko pulled me by the arm, deeper down the line of stalls, chewing.

“You are asking me to make myself emotionally unavailable,” he said, wisely. “I might not have believed it to work, but with undeniable evidence…”

“The minute I spoke nicely, he thought he could talk to me,” I added, scoffing. “ _Me!_ Unbelievable. You see?”

I coaxed him into easing half into the light of a lantern and dropping the smile for me. It was not easy. Even when at rest, he had a natural, friendly curve to his lips, and his eyes were half-shut, as though smiling.

“You are still raising your eyebrows,” I said, finally. “Why?”

“They sit heavy,” he said, hesitantly. He relaxed his face and allowed them to drop over his eyes, and immediately looked hardened and determined. I could see why he had been trained him to hold them higher, where they did not look as masculine.

Carefully, I put my two index fingers to the deep corners of his mouth, and tried to turn them downwards. I checked over my own shoulder, even though it was innocuous; instead, I felt his lips pull up against the current.

“Stop it,” I told him. “Be emotionally unavailable.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” he said, mouth opening in a laugh. “Do it again!”

His mouth froze where I set it this time, and he opened his eyes at my request. The whites of his eyes grew larger, and I could not help but look pleased with myself. I folded open my little compact, pleased. “Look.”

His heavy eyebrows furrowed together like caterpillars again, mimicry of a woman’s sadness. “I look like Princess Sarashina!” he said, in disappointment. “The beast, not the woman.”

I thought this very delusional and stupid of him to say, being blessed with good bone structure and skin like ceramic. Even with an icy countenance, he looked a little like Utau: beautiful, but untouchable. I decided against saying anything to the contrary, and instead only shrugged. “Shall we?”

“Where are we going?” He tilted his head, cutely.

“Head straight,” I admonished, with a glower. He began walking in a straight line, gazing at me in incomprehension.

“Head—” I said through grit teeth, grabbing his jaw and forcing it upright. “— _straight!_ We are going to enjoy ourselves, boys or Frog Choir be damned.”

“Frog Choir?”

The way Nagihiko acted, one would think enjoying himself was an alien activity. As we walked down the bustling, lantern-lit street, shoulder-to-shoulder, I caught him staring at me nervously like a dog who wondered if he was misbehaving.

“Would you pretty misses like to have a look at these?” a nearby shopkeeper called to us, mistaking my careless glance for interest. Nadeshiko jumped, skittish.

I elbowed the cardboard padding of her obi, hissing. “Why are you so _jumpy_? You’ve gone on jolly romps all over the countryside, if Kouen is anything to judge by.”

Nadeshiko hunched her shoulders up and played with her own fingers mournfully, like a woman strumming a harp. I reached to disentangle them, but consoled myself by slapping her hand instead.

“I was hardly acting a woman while sneaking out, was I?” she said, in a low voice. It blended into the men’s murmurs around her. “And that aside, I was alone.”

I took her sleeve and leaned over the shopkeeper’s wares with mild interest. It was full of different types of seals, from official documents to simpler motifs, such as teapots, and family crests.

“The best in Kansai,” the shopkeeper said, proudly. “Not only men use them, nowadays. Even women can be artists and sign bills.”

“Don’t act like I’m the obstacle, here,” I whispered, pretending to admire a seal with a man’s name on it. “Just admit you’re terrible at having fun.”

“I can have plenty of fun,” Nadeshiko informed me in a stage whisper.

“Looking at something for a man, Miss?” the shopkeeper inquired, noticing me looking. I put the stamp down, quickly, but Nadeshiko grabbed the bait before I could hurl it back into the sea.

“She’s trying to find a gift for her _boyfriend_ ,” Nadeshiko said.

“It’s for my creepy uncle,” I said, loudly. 

“See how shy and filial she is about it! Uncle, indeed!” Nadeshiko said proudly, tittering behind her sleeve. I stared at her, aghast. A snake’s beady eyes stared back at me, teasing.

“Does he need an official seal, or is this for personal use?” asked the shopkeeper briskly, rifling around in a drawer underneath his stall.

“I think I’ll look around some more,” I said, without emotion. Fire-hot bugs crawled up my neck.

“No, I think this is a good idea,” Nadeshiko said, earnestly. “You said he needed one, and it will demonstrate that you are a businesswoman of taste, who thinks about his future.”

“The young lady is right,” the shopkeeper said, angling for the sale. “A seal is a gift that lasts forever, and a man will need several throughout his lifetime. They are works of art in themselves.”

“I could be wrong, but I think he needs one for mid-level documents, such as bank signatures…” Nadeshiko stood on her tiptoes to look at the selection. “Help me out, Rima-chan, which one…”

“What is the gentleman’s name?” the shopkeeper asked me, winking.

 “Nagihiko,” Nadeshiko responded, without missing a beat.

“Is it, now?” I asked, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, yes,” said Nadeshiko vaguely, fingering the seals. “Wouldn’t a round one be nice?”

I stared at him, for several moments.

“Maybe,” I said, slowly.

“Go on, you know what he’d like better than I would,” Nadeshiko said, taking my shoulder. I raised my eyes, surprised. There was no sardonicism, or private joke. She meant it.

“… Round…” I agreed, softly. “I like this one.”

My fingertip touched the black side of a lacquer seal. A crane in flight was enameled on its side, wings spread.  There was calligraphy on it, too, though words I could not read.

“A nice choice,” the shopkeeper said, admiringly, although with a wink. “Is the lady angling for marriage? A crane represents…”

“Longevity,” I interjected, flat. “I’m in a hurry. How much?”

I could see Nadeshiko cramming her hand down her obi (uncouth) for her purse, although in her overelaborate joke, she had not given herself an out to do so. I began stacking coins on the counter, smug, before I realized I was financing his double life. _Dammit! Foiled again, by Fujisaki machinations—_

“ _Nagi_ , like a calm or lull, that so?” asked the shopkeeper, taking the seal from my hands. “Unusual name, that boy of yours.”

“For an unusual fool,” I demurred, staring at Nadeshiko. We could both take joy in a charade. Nadeshiko loved the mask, and I loved the farce. _What a pair,_ I thought, with a bite of something acrid. _Two liars_.

In these days, the makers of seals would carve them right there, before our very eyes. The seal-maker did so, knife glinting in the light of the lantern, before carefully wrapping it up in brown paper and tying it with twine. When it was done, Nagihiko tucked it into her obi, like a secret. “You follow me, this time.”

 I followed without thinking, one foot after the other. I had to trot to keep up with his long stride. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We wove our way in and out of a rapidly-thickening crowd of people. In the distance, the chorus of the Seiyo girls’ choir drifted over us, cutting in and out as though through faulty signal. I could only catch snatches of chorus, amid flutes:

 _… The rainfall moon, hidden by clouds_  
_When I must go to be a bride, who shall I go with?_  
_Alone, I hold a paper umbrella_  
_If I don’t have an umbrella, who shall I go with?_

I nearly bumped into the back of a man’s haori. Nadeshiko put a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Oh!” she said— with sadness. “We’ve only caught the end.”

“What is it?” I hissed, standing on my tip-toes. “I can’t see– this clod is blocking my view.”

I moved in front of Nadeshiko. There was nothing in front of me but a thicket of tall people. I could hear the drums, and the piercing voice of a narrator. It was the puppet show.

I turned to Nadeshiko, eyes shining. _He remembered?_ “It’s–”

“ _The Love Suicides at Amijima_ ,” we said, together. I stopped early, embarrassed.

“Pick me up,” I said, imperiously. “I wish to see.”

Nagihiko leaned forward. In shadow, his face looked roguish. “Oh? And what will Miss Mashiro give me in return?”

“A debt repaid,” I sneered, putting my arms around his neck. His attempts at cowing did not faze a stone-cold woman such as I. “Up.”

Although willowy, I correctly identified a quiet strength to Nagihiko. He put one arm under my knees and another against my back and picked me up quickly, like a limp doll. He was careful to keep my legs pinned together, as to spare anyone a flashing by merit of being carried like a corpse.

“The poor seal-maker will be so confused,” Nagihiko murmured, leaning me comfortably against his shoulder. I sat ramrod straight in his arms, one leg crossed daintily over the other. “We look like…”

I stared pointedly at the puppets, face pinched and angry.

“… A father lifting up his troublesome toddler… _ow._ ”

I flicked his face. _“Shhh!_ ”

I watched at rapt attention as the two lover puppets trundled over bridge after bridge after bridge. The workmanship was exquisite, although the narrator a little shrill for my taste. It quickly became clear that Nagihiko had seen it before. His eyes did not wander, but he mouthed the words to the narration silently, and his face shone with expectancy.

The two puppets bounced along, looking for a place to kill themselves. Finally, the man-puppet removed its little scarf, alongside a painted stream

“No matter how far we walk,” a man’s lone voice cried, “there’ll never be a spot marked ‘For Suicides.’ Let us kill ourselves here.”

The female puppet’s voice said something incomprehensible across the murmuring crowd— something to do with the plot details we had missed, of debt and obligation and someone’s wife.

“ ‘ _We may die in different places_ ’, ” Nadeshiko mouthed— and to my surprise, her eyes were wet with tears, despite us missing all the lead-up. “ ‘ _Our bodies may be pecked by kites and crows, but what does it matter as long as our souls are twined together? Take me with you, to heaven or to hell._ ’ ”

I was placing the safety of my fragile body in the arms of a sentimental mawk. I could not help it; I stifled a giggle, burying my face in the soft silk of Nagihiko’s shoulder. Warm, alive, he moved with every breath.

“You’re missing the suicide,” he quietly informed me. I looked up, just in time to see the puppet dastardly miss its lover’s throat with the katana. I snorted.

I paid for the snort after the bunraku show’s finale in the form of a lighthearted spat. If Nagihiko took a snort during a lover’s suicide so personally, I would hate to see his mother’s reaction.

“It’s _romantic_ —” Nadeshiko took pains to explain to me, face screwed up as though she was trying not to cry. “It is cruel because they are two parallel lines, destined never to touch. Yet it always ends on a note of hope, that Amita Buddha will allow them to be together in the next life.”

“You’re a real conservative, you know that?” I said, snidely. It was dark over our heads, and neither the moon nor lanterns lit our path back up to the school. I narrowly missed tripping over a rock. “The writer himself wrote it as a black comedy. The two leads are dolts, and the entire cast a load of straight-men. He can’t even stab her proper, for God’s sake.”

“Because his _hand_ is shaking!” She buried her face in her kimono sleeve. “He is seized with emotion—”

“I feel right sorry for his wife,” I said. “Imagine getting dumped for a shallow trollop with no spine.”

“Mashiro-san.”

“Do not presume yourself superior to me, Fujisaki-san, for all your highbrow tastes,” I continued, with disapproval. “The love interest is a glorified call-girl.”

“ _Mashiro-san._ ” Nagihiko shook the metal bars of the school fence. It rattled in place. “We’re locked out.”

We stared at the gate glumly for several moments, as though it would open with our sheer force of will. “How did this occur?” I finally said, very slowly, searching for blame.

“It locks at curfew,” said Nadeshiko, with guilt. “This is my fault. If we had not…”

I felt a warm drop of water hit my cheek. Seconds later, another. A quiet _thrum_ began in the distance, growing into the _shaa-shaa-shaa_ of a downpour. Cold points hit my head and shoulders.

I raised my head dourly to the sky, as though silently cursing the dragon that caused the rain, or however the legend went, and stamped my foot. A raindrop fell into my eye. _“Agh!”_

I sank to my knees in front of the school gate, leaning my head against the cold iron. Something about this seemed too contrived, just _too_ perfect. Of _course_ we were locked out. Of course it rained! I was being punished, for having such a wonderful evening. My mother was right. My body would be washed away by the currents of the Sumida River, never to find burial.

A scarlet shadow crossed over my head. The sound of the rain turned to isolated _plinks_. I looked up to see a bright red paper umbrella, behind Nadeshiko’s mildly concerned countenance.

“Where were you hiding that thing?”

She patted her left rib, below the hard obi padding. I understood. “It was supposed to rain today.”

She slowly sat down next to me, paper umbrella balanced on her thin shoulder. I swallowed my pride and scooted closer to her, to avoid the dripping. Nagihiko’s body was skinny, but he had layered and tucked enough to seem curvy, comfortable.

“Somehow,” I said, and my voice was dense and cloudy with sarcasm, “We are _always_ stuck out after dark.”

“You needn’t worry, this time,” Nadeshiko said with the modesty to look ashamed. “There is a teacher patrol that circles the gate at midnight.”

“Delivered into the hands of Sanjō? I am forever in your debt…!”

“You forget,” Nadeshiko’s eyes glimmered by the light of the moon. The rain pitter-pattered merrily onto the grass, well into its stride, now. “The teachers have all been drinking, no doubt, and shall be sleeping like logs. It will be my mother’s secretary who does the patrol.”

Shion. I remembered her name. I mulled this over, sneaking glances at him.

“Is this true?” I finally said, coolly.

“I have been attending school here a long time, Rima-chan.”

I decided that Nagihiko would not lie to me, just to prolong his inevitable murder at my hands. With no options, I slumped down, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs. The raindrops dripped off the waxy rim of Nadeshiko’s umbrella.

Nadeshiko watched them with me. She began to hum under her breath, softly.

“ _Alone, I hold a paper umbrella. If I don’t have an umbrella, who shall I go with?_ ”

“A stuffed straw-dummy, perhaps?” I said, not taking kindly to the sound pollution. Nadeshiko’s voice was high, cloying.

“Shara-shara, shan-shan, _rings the bell. The jostling horse will get drenched.”_

“Bully for the horse.”

“ _Please hurry, horse; the dawn comes. From underneath the reins, you look back; I hide my face with my sleeve. Even if my sleeve gets wet with my tears, I can dry it, and it will dry_.”

“My sleeve’s not wet with tears,” I said, snidely. “It’s wet with summer monsoon. Let’s do something else.”

“What does Rima-chan want to do?” She thought it very excessively cute, when she spoke in third-person to my face. It barely squeaked by on tiny, childish Yaya, never mind a five-foot-three snake with a proboscis nose.

I lolled my head back, watching the wooden supports and painted flowers rotate above my head. "Do you remember the story you told me? Of your father's troupe on the boat..."

"Of course." Nagihiko's voice was fondly nostalgic. "It's a memory I cherish close to my heart. I did not have much time to spend with my father."

"I want to hear one of the dirty jokes."

His shoulders sagged, and he turned his face modestly from mine, with the daintiness to feign embarrassment. "You still insist on this!"

"Yes."

"I couldn't," Nagihiko murmured, more to his sleeve than me. "A well-bred young lady like you shouldn't be defiled by things like this."

This was so patently false that I wondered why he bothered to say it at all.

"How lucky," I said, prissy, "That such a weighty decision is not in a pair of hands as low as Fujisaki-san's. That was an order, not a request."

The rain dripped. Nagihiko stared out onto the town sprawled below us, and raised his eyebrows, quietly.

“What do you call someone who can’t get enough, no matter how many times they do it?”

I became rigid, staring straight ahead of me. “What?”

He repeated himself. “What do you call someone who can’t get enough, no matter how many times they do it?”

“I don’t understa…”

“A loose woman – or an old person visiting the cemetery.”

I got the general jist, but not the specifics. Did old people visit cemeteries quite a bit?

Nagihiko smiled sunnily back at me. "Someone who gets lucky underwater? A fisherman, or Urashima Tarō. This sort of thing."

Urashima Tarō was a popular children’s story, about a man who received a river dragon’s wife out of gratitude. I cracked a tiny smile. "Another."

“I don’t know,” said Nagihiko, lying poorly. “I don’t remember any more.”

“Another.”

He swallowed, and I saw the pale protrusion on his throat bob. “What… what dribbles juice when you press your fingers into it?”

 His tone clearly conveyed that he, at least, knew as well as I precisely what this was meant to evoke. I was too frigid to blush, but I did feel something odd twinge inside me— a thrill of foreboding— the sudden realization that nice boys and girls did not speak of such things. 

“…”

“A ripe peach.”

“Ah,” I said, softly. I was too jaded to be embarrassed, but there was a strange lump in my throat. I understood why Nagihiko swallowed so nervously.

“What did you _think_ it was? Rima-chan, I don’t know if I wish to see this side of you… it may ruin my becoming image of your gentle personality!”

His face vanished behind his sleeve, coy and female once again. Her eyes twinkled above the swathe of red “You _know_ , in Gion, a geisha-in-training wears her hair in a manner that is called a split-peach hairstyle. And with the red fabric peeking through, it is supposed to evoke the image of ...” and then, deadpan. “A ripe peach, I suppose.”

“A ripe peach,” I repeated, hollowly. “What did you call it, before… first flower of the month?”

“Peaches,” she said, dangerously soft: “Or figs, or shellfish, or caverns.”

“Well, perhaps if it belongs to a mountain that is old, rocky and inhospitable,” I said, with transparent disbelief.

A strange noise escaped Nagihiko’s mouth, halfway between a repeated yelp and a snort. It took a moment to realize that he was _sniggering_ , like a dirty boy in a mud-puddle— there was no sleeve over his mouth now. I could see his teeth and red tongue glinting in the moonlight. “ _Hahahahaha!_ ”

I had once fancied Nadeshiko humourless, or only a fan of hiragana wordplay; I wondered what that me would say to this wild boy in front of me, laughing at crude body jokes. A wellspring of mirth grew inside of me, like a geyser. I had the modesty to turn my head away when I grinned. However much I stared determinedly at my right shoulder, I could feel Nagihiko’s eyes on me.

“You are too much, Rima-chan.”

“And you,” I murmured.

Perhaps only a few minutes later, I added: “I have one.”

“ _You_ do?” She sounded surprised.

“What does every woman have, that she may use to get what she wants?”

“ _Rima!_ ” she said, in mock-scandal. I was too elated to correct her.

“That is not a guess,” I reminded her. “Certainly, I use it with you often.”

A blush wormed its way up Nadeshiko’s slim, pretty neck. There was silence, before she whirled on me, eyes bright.

“Her _mouth!_ ”


	10. Blue-Eyed Doll

CHAPTER 10

 

青い目の人形

Blue-Eyed Doll

 

 

 

 

Summertime in Hyōgo prefecture was slow-onset and creeping like tropical fever. Thighs stuck to thighs, cotton to flesh, legs to the backs of seats. Mosquitoes droned by nightfall and cicadas cried by day. In the in-between, nature scrambled to reclaim as much as it could while the sun hung high. Creeping vines slithered up windowpanes, only for students with shears to cut them back. Huge centipedes nested in the bathroom sinks. Cockroaches scuttled across the hallway. Snakes hid in the grass on the lawn. What trees hadn’t bloomed in springtime let loose the pollen hidden beneath the leaves, golden specks in the damp air.

We forgot all modesty in the heat. Nagihiko slept without a coverlet, chest heaving like a Victorian maid dying of consumption. Something about Nadeshiko's skin attracted insects, as though honey ran in her veins. The raised red welts on her skin filled me with enough pity to light a candle in the window, in the hopes that the smoke would confuse them. After crushing a cockroach under my bare foot, I no longer stepped on the ground in the mornings, like a child playing the-floor-is-lava. I laid out my clothes at the end of my bed, and if not, demanded Nagihiko carry me across. 

In this way, the school term drew to a lazy close. We were happy to see it go and return to our cosmopolitan abodes to sleep the summer away in siesta. All except Nadeshiko, who would stay behind with Fujisaki-sensei. Did Nadeshiko even go home for the holidays? I did not ask.

“Take care,” I ordered Nadeshiko from the platform, waving my handkerchief. She leaned forward too eagerly, as though she was preparing to clasp my arms and pull me into an embrace. I gripped her thin hand and shook, as though we were cutting a business deal.

“You, too,” Nadeshiko said, hand cool, silky. “Remember to exercise, or your ankles will get even fatter.”

My grip turned to ice, and I cut off the circulation in her fingers.

I would like to say that we looked a vision of Japan’s young ladies on that train platform. If anyone had been out to look at us, they would have only seen a gaggle of red-faced, sweaty children with dust up to their knees, lugging suitcases and trunks and hatboxes behind them. Utau’s face was puffy with hay fever, but her tongue was tragically in working order (“ _Yeah, I don’t like pollen, so I look like this. What’s your excuse?_ ”). Amu was lost in lethargy, gazing at the machinations of the station ceiling. Yaya had gotten off a station before ours at Yokohama, greeted by a kind-looking man with slicked back hair. And I was…

I was re-reading Father’s letter and inhaling the air of Tokyo Central Station. The rattling of the tram and the chiming of the clock outside permeated over the sound of a million conversations. It smelled like tyre rubber, train exhaust, and the barest hint of crisp salt from Tokyo Bay.  _Home_.  I folded the paper up so that it wouldn’t get infected by miasma.

I must be hallucinating. A little walking children's clothing catalogue, doe-eyed and pin-curled, burst through the throng and onto Amu's arm. Shirley Temple was tailed by a slim, pretty woman wearing a pair of spectacles and a man with a giant camera around his neck. Amu lived but a fifteen-minute’s train ride from the station, so her family picked her up in person. Her mother thanked us for taking care of her with smiles and sunshine. Utau and I watched, as the family of four vanished into the throng, the picture of domestic idyll.

“Who’s meeting you?” Utau asked, checking the train schedule with a troubled expression. My gaze found the map of the train and streetcar system through Tokyo. I traced the path up from Tokyo Station over to Shinjuku the west in an S-shaped squiggle.

“Probably Emi-san,” I said, referring to our hired girl. If she was still with us, and hadn’t been fired by one of grandmother’s fits of bad temper. “And you?”

Utau stared at the map, and tapped right where we were— Tokyo station. “Our offices are here, in Nihonbashi,” she said. “Guess I’ll walk over and tell them I’m here. See if I can’t get the company car.”

“I’m here.” I pointed to Ginza, several inches to the southeast. “Close.”

“Yeah,” Utau agreed. “Sanjō lives around here, I think.”

“Scary.”

“Yeah, the Sanjōs...” Utau shrugged, voice controlled. “... Well, they’re bureaucrats now, obviously.”

I did not understand what she said, or why it would be obvious. I preferred to think that my teachers didn’t have lives and histories outside of Seiyo. I already knew far too much about Fujisaki- and Amakawa-sensei for my own comfort, I noted, disgruntled.

To my surprise, Utau walked me out to the gaping east entrance of Tokyo Station and stayed with me. “It’s not safe for a girl your size,” she said. She surveyed the crowd coolly until I spotted my mother’s servant. 

“My escort,” I said, pointing to her. 

“Not hard to miss, is she?” Utau demurred, raising an eyebrow.

 Emi caught sight of me the same time I did her. Raising the free hand that was not holding a brown bag of rhubarb, she yelled in broad commoner’s tongue:

“ _Ojou-chaaan!_ ”

I held out my luggage expectantly for Emi to take. She was too busy hailing a rickshaw to notice, balancing the bag of vegetables on her knee and whistling with her other. The cart-puller wheeled into the gutter, immediately identifying me as the little mistress. Blissfully, he took my suitcase and hat-box. 

Emi bounded in after me, peering at me sideways with her permanently amused smile.

“ _Kususususu!_ ” she cackled, hiding her teeth with her yukata sleeve. “You’re all dusty! You’d better change before tea, or your mama'll never gimme the end of it.”

I looked down at my once white stockings, now brownish from Seiyo’s dust, and wished for a parasol. The sun shone directly into my squinting eyes, and the rickshaw lurched. Still better than the tram.

“Kusukusu,” I said, using the nickname my grandmother coined as a sarcastic allusion to the way she cackled at everything. “Please pull the shade up. I do not want to go brown.”

Emi attempted to balance the vegetables on her lap and pull the oiled paper cover over our heads, a two-handed job. I leaned back against the rickshaw seat with a sigh, crossing one leg over the other. A shadow passed over my face.

“Is Mother in a tiff?” I asked, jostling to and fro, yet remaining rigid. Emi sniggered again, swinging her feet inches from the floor.

“The ojou-sans are very busy these days!” Emi remarked, cryptically. If anyone overheard Emi badmouthing her mistresses, she would be out on the streets with the other droves of unemployed, searching for work that did not exist.

“It’s a silk factory,” I said, forgetting not to discuss affairs with servants. “They go out to Saitama once a month to inspect and do inventory. How busy can they  _be_?”

“Not just the silk factory!” Emi was gleeful that she had crucial information over me. “They should think of your future, Little Miss. Doncha ever worry what’ll happen to you?”

I closed my eyes. Before me, I saw the mechanized silk reels of our factory. I recalled tuition fees, and remembered my situation. 

“You should worry about yourself,” I said, peering around the oiled rickshaw cover. I caught a glimpse of the Wako building and its adjoining clock tower as we breached Ginza Crossing. Its large white face read ten to four o’clock. Teatime.

I held my hat to my head as I disembarked from the rickshaw and onto the busy street without assistance. Several shiny black automobiles wheeled down Chuo Road, no doubt carrying the elite to their summer abodes. A delivery boy on a bicycle gawked at the sight of me and narrowly missed knocking over an old lady on the street. Ignoring them both, I strode forward. I looked right into the brass peep-hole of my black front door, from which my grandmother and I so loved to spy. Empty.

_Home_.

The Mashiro terraced house was tall but narrow. Squashed by a butcher's shop on one side and a department store on the other, it nonetheless wore its brass cornices and rod iron sills like crowns. It boasted chipped Edwardian mouldings as though the old King himself was still alive and well.

I strode into the sunlit entryway without ringing the bell.

Its interior gave the impression of living in a boxy china cabinet. The tall windows faced onto Chuo Road to let the light and prying eyes in. Even in the entryway, Grandmother and Mother cherished their things: a narrow mahogany coat closet, two mirrors on opposing walls, a dark table adorned with scrollwork, balls of clear resin with flowers trapped in them, little animals carved from jade, porcelain figurines from England of shepherdesses and ladies and cowherds, a tall Chinese pottery umbrella stand, a coat rack draped in silk and cotton and wool, a floor tiled black-and-white like a chessboard, and a vase of pink peonies overstuffed into a paltry amount of water. Where a normal home might have a Buddhist shrine to a departed relative, we had a turn-of-the-century photorealistic painting of my grandfather. He hung irreverently on the wall in a thick gilt frame. From his smug vantage point high above everyone’s head, he regarded any incoming guests over his monocle with disapproval.

I stopped to look at Grandfather today. His jaw was set, face hidden behind thick moustache and fading ink. I sometimes saw him in Mother, as more lines appeared around her mouth. I never saw any in myself.

_Home_.

“Kusukusu, the peonies are wanting water,” I ordered. She appeared behind me, lugging my suitcase and wheezing.

She snickered at my airs. I smiled at the mirror, patting my cheeks.

“Is Mother home?”

Emi couldn’t answer. A thin little bell tinkled through the house.

“ _Kusukusu!_ ” a woman’s voice called.

Emi dropped the suitcase at my feet, sticking her tongue out at me with glee. The bright orange mirage bounded off through the adjoining door.  _Thunk-thunk-thunk._ Her noisy socked feet thudded up the twisting staircase, circling up and up like a main artery.

Hopping up the stairs with my suitcase, I stopped on the second-floor landing by Mother's study. 

“...  _To get changed for tea_...” Mother’s voice drifted through the door.

“ _Yes, Ma’am._ ” Emi’s heels clicked.

I continued my pilgrimage up the carpeted stairs, all the way up to my little third-floor bedroom.

_Home_.

Mother had Emi occupied, and I was certainly not going to heat water for a bath myself. I sponged my face and legs off using a bit of water in the dish on my vanity, combing the sweat of travel from my fringe. I left my uniform, and all its memories, in a black, crumpled heap behind me.

* * *

“I cannot stay long,” my mother said, stirring her tea. Her hair hung lank on either side of her face in a razor bob, as stick-straight as mine was churning waves. Amu expressed awe at Fujimura-sensei, the short-haired teacher who smoked cigarettes, but I always fancied Mother to be the real  _modern girl._ She dressed as pragmatically as she dared, bare-faced in pressed silk blouses. She did the accounts herself with an abacus. She smoked when the men in the room did. She had no striking looks, but no ugliness, either. She was simply there, a wooden piece of furniture in a room I was not permitted to enter. 

"I am taking supper with the overseer this evening. There looks to be a strike again," she said, more to herself than me. “On top of it all, peak cocoon season is about to begin, and last year was poor yield thanks to the pébrine outbreak, so we will have loans to pay from last fiscal year as well as this one…”

She rubbed her temple, staring right through the chinaware. I nibbled on a finger sandwich.

"The English are not buying silk like they used to,” my mother continued in a mumble. “Down by half since the market crash. They prefer to do business with the Chinese. For three hundred million pounds in investments, Hell, so would I. The best bet is the domestic market, but in this awful recession...”

I took a sip of my lukewarm tea. Outside, a bush warbler landed on a thick, leafy branch, chirping.

“… And _then_ , in the thick of all this, I get a letter from school, saying you’ve sneaked out.” She frowned at me, like a boss giving an employee a performance review.  _Rima Mashiro, daughter at this company for 16 years. Sneaks out, sets off fireworks and is altogether hopeless. Liability on profits. 3/10._

“Do you have anything to say in your defence?” Mother added, sternly. I now think a normal parent might have doled out a strict punishment, solitary confinement, perhaps. But Mother (when present to preside) was a strong proponent for the right to a fair trial. I mulled over my options.

_Uh, no._

_May I ask the charges for which I am accused?_

_I did it for love._

_I have a defendant’s right to counsel under detention._

“A classmate was going to run away,” I said dispassionately, deciding that the less outright fabrications, the more convincing the fib. “We went to convince her otherwise.”

A flicker of something like concern shadowed behind my mother’s tired eyes. “Run away? Do they mistreat you at Seiyo?”

I thought of the rattan cane, and a chill settled over my back. Freedom was tantalizingly close. If I did well, I could finish school next year, and then I could return home for good. I could learn about the boring business of silk, go to the theatre, never pick up a needle again in my life. I shook my head.

“Good.” My mother swilled the tea around in her cup, as though contemplating consuming it for nutrition. She seemed to think better of it, and opened an investigation, instead.

“Who tried to run away?”

“Hoshina Utau-san.”

“Of the _Fukkatsu-sai_  conglomerate? Hoshina Souko-san’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

Mother only needed a moment of consideration.

“Don’t get mixed up with that girl,” Mother said, sternly. “I remember when her mother got seduced by a penniless violinist before you were born.  They’re cut from the same cloth, those two.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, miserably.

We fell into a cool silence. The bush warbler pecked at the branch outside. I smoothed down the front of my frock, finishing the rest of my sandwich. Mother had assumed the same as we had— that Utau had tried to elope. I should have made it clear that Utau was running away with her brother, but even this was a dangerous amount of information.

“How old are you turning?” Mother asked me.

“Seventeen this year,” I said, jarred.

Mother drummed her fingernails on the table.

“This talk is overdue, then. Seventeen already? You barely look a day past twelve. Have you given any thought to boys?"

My eyelid twitched. I could only imagine Yaya's gravelly imitation of an adult's voice through her tears of laughter if she could witness this.

' _Rima-tan, consider, just for a moment: Boys. What are they?'_

_'Boys_ ,' I would say, in my best impersonation of a nature documentarian. " _Majestic, rare creatures, native to the steaming tropical jungles of Africa. They live in garbage heaps and forage for food-'_

After four and a half months with Nagihiko, I could not say with good conscience that I had, as a matter of fact, considered boys. I found them to be lacking. Unwittingly, the memory of Nadeshiko's warm hands, holding mine too tightly as she argued passionately about _The Love Suicides at Amijima_ , rose to the surface of my mind.

"Uh," I said.

“You cannot inherit the silk factory until you marry.” She closed her eyes. “If the army continues to demand the bulk of the budget, and Britain continues not to buy our raw silk, and the banks call in our loans…”

My mother was apolitical and worshipped the free market. If the government enabled the family holdings to thrive, it was doing just fine. Why she was telling me this?

“You might find yourself penniless and without anything to inherit.”

Penniless!

“Money is tight.” 

The secure floor tipped to the side. I felt like Alice, falling down a rabbit hole into a Wonderland of financial insecurity. I had no brothers. _I was supposed to be an heiress_. I had counted on having the power to pick my husband. My blood pumped sluggishly, and I heard the sea in my ears.

As though from far away, Mother’s voice continued. “… A rich son-in-law who would pay your bride-price could be adopted into this family and solve all our problems.”

“No rich man would give up his family name to run a stranger’s business,” I said distantly, from the precipice.

Adopting a man to be your daughter's husband was a common practice in families with unsuitable male heirs (or no male heirs at all). In the old days, it was medieval fosterage among nobility. By the time I was alive, it was mostly businesses obsessed with keeping assets in the family. 

“He doesn’t have to be a Rothschild, for Heaven’s sakes.” My mother grew quickly exasperated with me. “For a man who would bring a guaranteed market, I told the matchmaker we would consider waiving your bride-price. I would accept an Englishman or American if the prenuptial was airtight.” 

I remembered Father’s letter, balled up in my skirt pocket upstairs. As Mother spoke, the plan wove itself into being before my eyes with a pair of needles. Both my parents, oceans apart, had manoeuvred me right into place. King-take-Queen. 

“I received a letter,” I stated. “From London.”

My mother did not appear surprised at the abrupt subject change. “I see it reached you safely.”

I wondered if she was going to beg me to stay. Instead, she just sighed.

“It’s not safe here,” my mother said. “It is about time your father took responsibility for the English half of his daughter. If you finish school, and we haven’t found you a man you like, we will obtain you a visa.”

_We._ My skull was full of pea soup. I knew that I was considered _big at sixteen_ , that I was heiress to a fickle industrial trade, that Japan was not safe— even this, I knew to be crushingly true. All the same, I felt like a terrified child facing a tall doorway full of grown-ups. Married. So soon?

“I don’t like boys,” I said, stupidly.

“Don’t be silly, Rima,” my mother said, now checking her watch. “Of course you do.”

As if on cue, Emi jogged in with a telephone in her hands, brandishing it in front of her with her nose facing the floor.

“That will be the sericulturist,” she said, rising to her feet and leaving her undrunk tea. “I will leave you to it.”

* * *

The only thing Mother _left me to_ was my own devices. It was the last time we spoke at length, as she was out in the countryside for the rest of the summer, trying to keep the factory girls from striking. Ironically, she was left unaware of the girl on strike at home.

I had plenty more questions for Mother. Firstly, how dare she? Secondly, what kind of man was she going to set me up with? Thirdly, if money was tight, ought I to feel guilty for consuming small luxuries, like roast beef and new shoes? I knew better than to ask Grandmother, who was now getting old and crotchety, nor Emi, who was not privy to such things. 

At least Emi and Grandmother could leave the house. Emi was in and out of the door like a one-man circus with lists of things, juggling grocery bags and meat parcels. She stayed when she could, cracking jokes and bringing in ridiculous things to make me smile. On more than one occasion, she burst through the front door, holding a black stray cat up by the arms and hollering.

“ _Look!_ His name is Yoru, and he eats old tuna from tins!”

Thoroughly spoilt, I decided that if nobody was going to communicate with me, I would order as many things as I liked. I sent Emi out with lists. She returned cheerfully with anything I demanded. I learnt that there was a shaved ice stand on the corner of Chuo Road, and that if I sent Emi out with a coin, she could run back with a cone before it melted. As July dripped on, I found myself with paperbacks wrapped in twine, oranges and cakes, skeins of raw silk from the factory. 

It was on one of these lazy afternoons in August that I received my first gentleman caller. I was stretched attractively out on the cool tile floor of the entryway, fanning myself and eating madeleines from a tin. It was too agonizing to stay anywhere but the ground floor: the hot air rose.

The little bell on the inside of the doorway tinkled more loudly than it usually did. I twisted my head around. Grandmother was out taking tea with her gambling addiction support group. Emi was puttering about in one of the back rooms somewhere; the pots were dimly clanking.

“I have it,” I announced, heroically getting to my feet. “Why is the milkman so late today?”

I decided that anyone inane enough to ring the doorbell during the hottest time of day could stand to wait on the stoop and deep-fry a little. I dragged a footstool right up to the door, clambering up to peer through the peep-hole.

Within the fisheye lens stood a tall boy in black maybe a few years older than me, shining hair combed off his head. His face was in sunlit profile. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was admiring the blooming astilbes on the front walk. Definitely not the milkman.

I pulled back the deadbolt and opened the door, leaving the door chain on. Through my two-inch field of vision, I squinted up. The mystery man was wearing a formal black kimono, which could not have helped the heat. Two family crests stared at me from either shoulder. Upon closer inspection, he seemed to be breathing a little heavily, as though he had been jogging.

“Rima-chan!” the boy said in an out-of-breath tenor, putting his hands together and grinning at me. “It’s been a while!”

I stared at him. Then I shut the door.

_Who the hell was that?_

I contemplated the deadbolt before removing the safety, allowing the door to fall fully open. Was I hallucinating?

“Pardon,” I told his family crests at eye-level, politely. “Are you here to do a kendo demonstration?”

What _were_  those crests supposed to be? Some sort of trailing flower?

“Y-you know, a nice girl would just call me _handsome_ out of politeness and just be done with it…” he said, scratching his cheek and half-grimacing down at me.

“Nagihiko?” I asked, stupidly.

“Of course,” said Nagihiko, a bit stung. “Didn’t you recognize me?”

“No,” I said. Then I pointed. “Hair.”

He touched the stiff, waxen wing of his hair self-consciously. I could now see that it had been slicked back into what looked like a short, boyish cut with clean lines. Nagihiko reached behind the nape of his neck and pulled out his ponytail, from where it was evidently tied low and tucked into his underrobe.

Behind him, the street seemed a little more lively than usual. There were quite a few women out in kimono today, and what sounded like a shrill, elderly voice shouting indistinctly. Nagihiko’s eyes darted to his back.

“Would you like… to come in?” I said, looking around his shoulder. Very slowly and pointedly, I stood aside.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Nagihiko faffed, slipping through the doorway and prying my fingers off the doorknob so he could shut it. The frame shook a little. “I’d really hate to intrude.”

Standing in my cluttered entryway, he looked more like the Nadeshiko I remembered with several mistakes on the part of the sculptor. Nagihiko had always been a little leggy-looking, but now he was downright _tall_. I used to see him eye-to-chin. Now, it was more like eye-to-collarbone.

Nagihiko hadn’t realized how much he had grown, either. There was something distinctly awkward about the way he craned his neck to look down at me, as though suddenly discovering I was a Christmas elf. 

“It’s just me and the maid,” I said, flicking my eyes head-to-toe. “You’re ginormous.”

“Surely not _ginormous_?” Nagihiko said, anxiously. The fine lines of his cheekbones and chin were beginning to peek through his once-oval face. I had no doubt that everyone would be bemoaning Nadeshiko’s mature-looking beauty come autumn. I could practically hear Manami's voice shrieking ‘ _Lukewarm and salty!_ ’ or whatever.

Nagihiko rotated on the spot, slowly taking in every detail of the room with amazement. He stopped directly opposite the door, unfortunately finding himself face-to-face with Grandfather Mashiro.

The portrait glowered down at him, no doubt rolling in his grave about letting an Imperial Kyoto shill under our sacred mercantile roof. Nagihiko stared back at the painting with mild interest.

“Not ginormous,” I agreed, touching my own baby fat. While Nagihiko was distracted having a stare-off with my dead ancestors, I kicked the tin of madeleines under the carved bureau. “Come in. We can take tea in the sunroom.”

The sentence sounded terribly grown-up. I rode this gleeful wave of mature hostess through the parlour and into the little conservatory, opening the twin French doors with aplomb. The afternoon sun filtered in through the gabled glass ceiling and walls, catching the light.

When I was small, we had a gardener who had filled the room with gnarled tropical trees in pots with blooming orchids and cyclamens. The flowers died when we let him go, but the trees remained, stunted yet thriving. There were only two chairs set around the little tea-table. At the time, I did not find this odd; it was only ever me and Mother, or Mother and Grandmother, or me and Grandmother— never all three at once. But in the years to come, I would note that Nagihiko’s eyes had lingered on the chairs in mingled surprise before taking a delicate seat.

“Ah, you must forgive me,” Nagihiko fretted, pulling his hair over his shoulder and gazing up at the glass ceiling with wonderment. The sunlight moved over his hair in cool glints, like the surface of an ocean. “I didn’t even bring anything.”

“You didn’t,” I agreed. Emi nimbly opened the door with her foot (classy), balancing the tea-tray on her elbow, the tiered stand in her other hand and two plates on her head. She must have assumed I was taking tea with Grandmother. When she saw Nagihiko, her face widened somewhat, into a delightedly confused leer.

“I suppose you will make it up _somehow_ ,” I continued, boredly, as though Emi hadn’t walked in. I drummed my fingernails on the table in an unconscious mimicry of my mother. “Some time this year would be excellent, _Kusukusu_.”

Emi turned to me, placing the tiered tray down with a clatter. Her bright eyes flicked back to Nagihiko, batted, and then returned to me with a snicker. The two plates came off her head with naught but a wobble.

As though Emi was not there, I dropped a lump of sugar into my tea, followed by a splash of cream. I stared at Nagihiko, warily.

Emi snickered. Nagihiko turned to look at her, smiling politely.

“Dismissed,” I said, curtly.

Obligingly, she skipped out, hiding her red face behind her sleeve. I took a gentle sip of my tea, eyeing Nagihiko’s wan face over the rim. Somehow, with him on my home turf, I felt… comfortable. Relaxed.

“I’m waiting.”

Nagihiko tilted his head at me, putting on his classically blank, innocent smile. “For?”

“Why you are here,” I added, softly.

“I don’t…”

“If you had planned to call on me, you would have brought a gift, for wont of us thinking the Fujisakis rude,” I interrupted, helping myself to a sticky bun and sawing it in half so I could butter it. Nagihiko seemed to eye them apprehensively, as though he had never seen bread before.

“You would have come as Nadeshiko, because it is less questionable. You would not have dressed so formally. You would have telephoned ahead, or written, I suppose. There were more people on the street today, as though they were looking for something. Or _someone_.”

Nagihiko looked right at me. Slowly, he pulled his untouched tea forward on its saucer, gazing into its carnelian depths and carefully turning it once round. He took a tentative sip.

“What is this?” he said, aghast.

“Assam,” I said. “Hurry up.” 

“You are correct,” Nagihiko said, before taking another careful sip. “I was at a marriage meeting.”

I choked on my sticky bun, and pounded my chest. Eyes watering, I looked up. “Pardon?”

“I was at a marriage meeting,” Nagihiko repeated, almost savouring my reaction. He ripped the corner off a bun with delicate care, like a monkey trying to pretend it knew how to eat. “With a girl. I am still a man, you know. Time is ticking.”

_Have you ever considered boys? Boys. Boys reside in the jungles of the city, feeding on birdseed and corn. Boys. What are they? We just don’t know_.

“It must have gone excellently,” I said, “For you to come running to my door like this.”

“Oh, it was splendid,” said Nagihiko warmly. “She will make a man very happy someday.”

“Humour me.” I stirred my tea. “What sort of man will she make happy?”

“One who prefers his girls teary,” said Nagihiko, with a hennish cluck. “She is the youngest daughter of a well-renowned Kabuki actor who resides in the new capital. They shoved her into the garden with her fan positioned in front of her face, so that nobody could see her puffy red eyes. I thought I would spare her the agony of my presence.” A glint of pearly teeth. “So, when everybody was busy looking at the koi, I jumped the gate.”

“What does she think to accomplish, dragging her heels to slaughter?” I remarked. “Marriage comes for us all. Better to accept it than to snivel.”

“How utilitarian of you,” Nagihiko said, dryly. “Is there not the smallest part of Mashiro-san that believes in fated love?”

“The inexorable destiny of you and Puffy-Eyes, you mean?” I enquired sarcastically in my tiny voice. Since mother's chat, I had made up my mind. “Pretending marriage is anything more than a business transaction is naïve.”

“Of course,” said Nagihiko. I did not expect the Queen of Schmaltz to agree with me. Then, pointedly—

“But I was not asking about marriage.”

“It does not matter what I believe in,” I said, feeling hot. My heart hammered behind my ribs. _Time is ticking, time is ticking. Money is tight._

“It does to me,” Nagihiko insisted. “If marriage satisfied everyone, we would not have mistresses. Every man who can afford it takes one, don’t they? The wife is the business transaction, and the mistress is the… _ah_ —”

He cut off upon finding me stark white, little fist gripped around my teaspoon as though I would like nothing more than to lunge across the table and gouge his eyeballs out. The vestige of an older habit, I was determined not to let Nagihiko know that he had wormed under my skin.

Nagihiko cleared his throat, awkwardly.

“The weather is terribly hot,” he remarked, slipping his haori off his shoulders. “I may have imposed on your kindness.”

His eyes glanced up at mine, a careful up-and-down. I took his well-disguised apology at its word, putting the spoon down and uncrossing my ankles. Unwelcome prickles of heat stabbed the back of my eyeballs and threatened to burn around the rims. I stared down the barrel of my impending, loveless future, and had the urge to do something reckless.

“No imposition,” I said, re-crossing my legs so one was draped over my knee. The corner of my slippered foot grazed Nagihiko’s leg.

“You might notice that women do not take mistresses. The privilege of _loving_ belongs to men alone.”

Nagihiko looked well and truly stumped at this. However much I might like to be proved wrong— _love_ was such a pretty notion, the thing of kabuki plays and fairy stories— I worried for Nagihiko’s sheltered, romantic upbringing, and hoped he would have a little acumen.

“Rima,” Nagihiko said in an alluringly low voice, leg moving under my foot as he leant forward. His hair slithered over his shoulder and onto his black breast. “Are you crying?”

I leaned into his new, long face, gazing at him vacantly through my damp eyelashes. He gazed up at me through the tiered tray with a face I knew well, of a man staring into the sun. His mouth was slightly open, and his brown eyes were wide.

“They’re fake,” I said, deadpan. “Got you.”

The sunroom door swung open on its creaky brass hinges. “Rima?”

My mother stood in the doorway, a terrifying five-seven vision in crochet lace gloves and a sweeping day-dress. Emi fidgeted behind her, holding a brimmed hat. She made a slit-throat motion.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” I said, calmly, not bothering to lean back in my seat again. I was pressed right up against the edge of the tea-table, hands braced against it.

“Who is this?” She gestured to Nagihiko’s back. My heart sank.  

I stared at Nagihiko. Nagihiko stared at me. Emi stared at her own reflection in the window, and began pulling faces.

“Fujisaki-san is the brother of a friend,” I said, hiding my losing hand of cards behind an empty face. “He happened to be in Ginza, so he dropped in.”

For a terrible minute, I worried she wouldn’t buy the lie. I ought to have known better. Any child of strict parents knows that lying becomes a second skin.

“Fujisaki, of the Fujisaki house?” my mother asked, extending a hand. I felt as though we were all having a business meeting on a live wire.

“The same,” Nagihiko said without batting an eyelash, standing up to shake her hand. I gave my mother a startled stare. What did my rigid mother know of _Kabuki_?

“Fujisaki Aoi IV’s troupe used to buy their silk from my father’s mill,” my mother remarked dispassionately. “It shipped to Hiroshima for dyeing, of course.”

Nagihiko’s eyes widened, and I felt a jolt of foreboding. _Oh, noooo_.

“Pardon for the sudden question, but… the portrait in the entryway isn’t of the Mashiro-san of Mashiro Silk Holdings, is it?”

I rolled my eyes at Emi, unimpressed with the flattery. Emi crossed her eyes back at me.

“It is,” said my mother, never happy but distinctly proud. “Rima’s grandfather.”

Nagihiko turned to me, mock-surprised. “My sister never told us! Surely she would have known?”

“I cannot see how it is relevant to anything,” I said, decapitating the conversation.

A hush settled over the sunny little room. I got to my feet, admiring the floor all the while, and bobbed a little half-curtsy.

“We will take our leave, Mother.”

I felt Nagihiko’s dark eyes on my sticky back all the way up the open-well staircase. The heat was suffocating by the third landing, but Nagihiko stubbornly refused to loosen his kimono.

“It’s warm,” I said, grateful for the short sleeves and breeze under my skirt. I wiped the back of my neck with my handkerchief. “Who is looking?”

“You,” Nagihiko said. I could imagine his face taking the shape of the mask I called _distress_ : eyebrows pulled together, brows embracing, eyelids pulled up, lower lip out. “That is my worry.”

I took a few dainty steps into my bedroom. Nagihiko flirted with the doorway, uncertain. I beckoned him towards me.

“You have scruples in my childhood home,” I needled. “How comforting.”

Nagihiko glanced up at the moulded ceiling, and back to my eyes. Lifting his kimono in one hand, he glided round the rocking-horse and dollhouse on the floor. He took a fluid seat through the cloud of disturbed dust and frowned at me.

“Well, I’m Nagihiko today, you see.”

My features settled into a strange expression. I picked up a round music box, assuming Nagihiko would be the type to like such things.

“Mother isn’t old-fashioned like that. She cares little of my honour, so long as I demand my price. And anyway,” I added, in a low voice, “The maid is probably outside the door, making sure you aren’t r—”

“Demand your price,” Nagihiko talked over me. “Your bride-price. Like what the fortune-teller said.”

It was a strange thing for him to recall in such a moment. I turned over my shoulder, thinking the same thing he was: _if Saeki Nobuko could know this without being told, what else did she know?_

_You will die in a land far from your home, with blood in your mouth._

“Oh, come now,” I said, reading Nagihiko’s eyes. “It was a lucky guess.”

His eyes left mine, leaving me frustrated at lack of insight. He still seemed a little fidgety.  

“What about your father?” Nagihiko added, anxiously.

“Hm?” I said, absently twiddling with the key.

“I don’t think any father wants to think there’s been a man in his daughter’s room.”  

I raised my eyes from the gilt, having the pride to look affronted. “Firstly, you aren’t a man, so jot that down.”

Nagihiko mockingly mimed plucking an ink brush and poised his pinched fingers over an invisible sheaf of paper before him.

“Secondly, you shan’t worry. He lives…”

I trailed off. My fingertips worried at the metal.  

“He’s not here,” I murmured.

Nagihko’s joints cracked as he got to his feet. His breath on the back of my neck tickled the baby hairs.

“Did he give that to you?”

Even the nice way he said it felt like a crowbar cracking me open. Nonetheless, he stood at my mercy, so I felt it well-mannered to be an honest host.

“Yes.”

I pointed to the wide-eyed English doll in the china cabinet, dusty lashes framing wide blue eyes. “That, too. And the dollhouse.” My nails scrabbled in the grooves of the music box. “This, also. And the rocking-horse, and the pearls on the bureau.”

“So little Rima-chan is spoiled.” Nagihiko’s smile came back. I thought of Amu’s doing the same thing— slowly at first, and then like the sun.

“My father did the same thing when I was little. I think he felt sorry for leaving me alone when he travelled, so he tried to make it up to me.”

I put down the music box. My shoulders relaxed, though my jaw didn’t.

“It doesn’t.”

“No,” Nagihiko agreed. “But when I grew older, I could look at the situation through his eyes, and understand that a hollow gesture is preferable to the agony of doing nothing.”

“Doing nothing is preferable to the _insult_ of the thing.” My voice cracked.

Nagihiko put a hand on my shoulder. It was not authoritatively planted at the junction between neck and scapula, like a father would, nor condescendingly steering my elbow. Instead it grazed the rounded curve of my upper arm, less an order and more a suggestion. I looked up to tell him off, but found a friendly face, frowning in innocent concern instead.

“Sit down, Mashiro-san,” he said, soothingly. I let him guide me into the armchair, hands still clutching the music box with white fingers.

“Perhaps this is out-of-line—” he began.

“ _You’re_ out-of-line.”

“But I asked you, last spring, for your loyalty.”

“I gave it freely,” I reminded him, from my throne of authority.

A soft _flump_ of knees hitting Oriental carpet. Nagihiko sunk to his knees before me like a daimyo’s retainer, with the sort of aggressive air that suggested he might put his sword before me if he had one. His hands braced against the wool, and his hair slid off his shoulder as he leaned forward.

“As I did mine,” he said, mannishly. “I have pride, you know. You have not used me in any way to repay the debt I owe.”

I deeply enjoyed Nagihiko at my feet on his knees, and couldn’t help but straighten my back a little, staring down at him.

“Debt? Do you refer to the burden of concealing your sex?”

“I do.”

I thought back to all the strange little kindnesses— the yukata, dancing to my koto, cool hands on my back, making ink. A debt? My stomach sank.

 “How do I repay it?” I asked, stiffly. “It’s an inconvenience.”

“Confide in me,” Nagihiko said forcefully, from the rug. “I troubled you, with the talk of mistresses. So, _confide in me_.”

For a fake girl, he was terribly arrogant. _Confide in me_ , he says, to absolve himself of guilt. _Lay yourself bare for my peace of mind_.

“No,” I said— tried to. Instead, I pulled my knees to my chest in the chair, pressing my chin into the tops of my knees, and opened the music box. The rusty, click-like notes settled into the dusty room like they belonged there. I narrowed my eyes at the rotating ballerina figurine in its centre, as though this was all her fault.

I closed it, and the last high C clanked out to dismal nothing.

“Fine.

“My father does not care that you are standing in my room because he is a foreigner,” I said without passion, clutching the music box to my breast and feeling the comforting, cold stab of metal. The blackness of my eyelids was blissful.

 “He was stationed in Tokyo as a diplomat, and married the daughter of a textile magnate. A year later, he was recalled to London. … Showing,” I added, bitterly, “Just how meaningless alliances are.”

“Mashiro-san…-”

“You told me to confide,” I said, opening my eyes. “I am confiding. As I was saying. Did you know that diplomats cannot legally marry Japanese nationals?”

“I didn’t,” Nagihiko said, averting his eyes again.

“He was recalled to London, with nothing to hold him back,” I repeated, with vehemence. “And left us here. He did not even stay long enough to see me born. I don’t even know what his face looks like. So, you see, my mother is a mistress, and ruined for it. And I am, as the fraud said, _lowborn_. How convenient for you.”

Nagihiko’s eyes flicked back to me, settling back into seiza at my feet. The _confused_ mask settled easily into his features, like distress, but wider eyes and an open mouth.

“How so?”

“Your mother would not throw a well-born girl in with her son, but a mixed-blood bastard is disposable enough.” The air sucked between Nagihiko’s teeth at the rude word. I did not mean to, but all the resentment at Fujisaki-sensei came bursting forth like water from a dam. “You could do whatever you like to me, and get away with it.”

It might have not been the best idea to insinuate Nagihiko was a philanderer, insofar as he had been rakish at worst and a gentleman at best. To my immediate regret, I saw Nadeshiko’s warm eyes fill with tears.

“That’s cruel, Rima-chan!”

Her hands bunched at her own hakama. I could barely see the arrogant boy there seconds ago, nor whether the tears were fake or not. _Curse_  the mask.

“Just because I _could_ doesn’t mean I _will_. Should I think the same way my parents do, always? Is that how you see me– my mother’s arm?”

I started to talk, but Nadeshiko was still going.

“I don’t,” she said, teetering on the edge of a fury she was not used to. “I don’t think of Mashiro-san that way. A lady is a lady, no matter blood or circumstance.”

 I did not know what to say to this, and could only look at him, aghast, and mutter something indistinct. Nadeshiko turned to the mirror and immediately began dabbing at her pink eyes with her sleeve, looking flustered.

It was not Nadeshiko's fault she did not like me and regarded me as her debtor. But it was also not  _my_  fault that she happened to have a reptile for a mother.

Apologizing did not come easy to me. I cast my eyes about for anything else to give in repentance. Spotting a glittery object, I began to inch it towards her before Nadeshiko turned to smile at me.

“No need,” she said, cheeks pink. “If I did whatever I wanted to you, you would gouge my eyes out and give me a terrible scolding.”

I was a debtor, but I felt rather chummy nonetheless. 

“If I did whatever I wanted to you,” I said, imagining pouring bathwater over her head when she started going on about poetry, “You would be sopping wet most of the time.”

“What?” said Nadeshiko.

The bush warbler from a few days ago called out in the silence. A piercing voice came through the propped-open window.

“ _Nagihiko!_ ” a woman’s voice called, familiar, from countless school speeches. Nagihiko froze, still pinkish, and began stuffing his arms through his hakama.

“Mother,” he said. “I have intruded long enough, I think.”

He took my hands in his. This time, I let him.

“I will see you on the train?”

He would. But I dreaded the sheer thought of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patches and bug-fixes:
> 
>   * Shibuya Station was an extremely minor stop on the train line in 1937. It should have been Tokyo Central Station, the major transportation hub. This has been adjusted from Chapter 1. Oops.
>   * Everybody's ages have been pushed forward a year, because my timeline was skewered. Rima is sixteen. Utau is eighteen. Yaya is fifteen. This has been adjusted from Chapter 1.
>   * A sleek new UI update! (lol) Enlarged chapter headings, font switched to Baskerville, and added support for Mincho Japanese font display on Mac OSX.
>   * Made the "Notes" section resemble footnotes in a pre-1960s publication, even though a lot of them are a bit _Translator's note: Keikaku means plan_. I'm preserving them for authorial integrity.
>   * Quickly whipped up some page dividers!
>   * Altered the translation of Rima's name, which was, frankly, a clusterfuck. I'm now using the standard Chinese-language translations across the board.
>   * Went in and replaced single quotes (" ") with typographer's quotes (“ ”) where applicable, because straight quotes are, to my displeasure, _unintelligible_ in Baskerville.
> 

> 
> Quick-posting this one, warts and all, before I run off to the coast for the weekend. Thank you for your patience! Glad to be back.


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